Keeper
by Morbid DramaQueen10
Summary: For nearly an age, Thranduil has ruled the Greenwood forest alone. But it wasn't always so. A young bee keeper rises from a modest forest living to reign alongside the King of Mirkwood, raising the heir and navigating the politics of Arda. Thranduil/OC
1. Chapter 1

**Keeper, Chapter 1**

**DISCLAIMER: LOTR and all of her characters belong to the Tolkien estate. **

**-XXX-**

With upmost caution, Rylittle eased his way past the rickety wooden gate that marked the edge of the keeper's property. While the small square of land, with its vine-draped little stone cottage and well-maintained flowerbeds, did not look particularly imposing. If anything, it was charming. But even so, the man felt ill-at-ease. The keeper was said to be a kindly soul, gentle, though equally aloof as other of her species. Though, it was not the keeper the trader particularly feared – it was her bees.

He was a little more than halfway down the path, moving at a steady shuffle, when one of them approached. Drifting lazily in the warm spring breeze, the insect's wings glittered as they moved. The trader froze as the bee neared. It landed on the lapel of his jacket. Rylittle could not breathe, could not move, could not speak for fear of being stung. So he stood helplessly in the middle of the keeper's path, staring at the small creature resting on his chest. He was so preoccupied he did not note the approach of the bee's mistress.

A light hand moved to offer forth a finger. After some consideration, the bee mounted the offered limb. The keeper withdrew her hand, putting it eyelevel.

"They're very wary of strangers," she said calmly, eyes only for the golden velvety body of her tiny charge. "I'm sorry that he frightened you."

"N-not at all," Rylittle assured her, gaping. Though he had come to her cottage many times, the keeper never failed to stun him. Her calm demeanor wasn't unusual of elves – or so he'd heard, he had not encountered many, as most of the Wood-elves preferred to remain deeper within the forest – and neither was her beauty. It was that combined with the casual nature with which she interacted with her bees that threw him (and likely everyone else) off guard. She treated them as her children, her friends.

The keeper peered at him for a moment before straightening. "Come inside. I just put the kettle on, and I am sure your journey has been long."

"I shall tell you the news of the Esgaroth," he agreed, following after her as she moved inside. Just before the door, she set the bee on a blossom that hung from one of the flowering vines.

She never asked after the goings-on the world of Man. But he got the feeling that she liked to know. Rylittle suspected that the keeper was, in her own way, fond of humans. After all, she lived so near the town, not nearly as deep in the Woodland Realm as most other elves. Some speculated that she once had a human lover, others that she was an outcast of her peoples. But Rylittle didn't know what to think – only that the Erlea, her name, was not elvish.

So he spoke of the world beyond the Greenwood. He spoke of the rising threat of war, the chaos rising in the realms to the east. She was interested, though clearly very troubled by his words. Content to listen, she offers nothing herself of the elves or life in the Woodland Realm. Occasionally she might mention news of Oropher's court, but that was rare. He suspected that she was not often with her own kind. Few elves lived so close to the edge of the forest. Most preferred to stay near their court. Perhaps it was the hives that caused the distance. He would not dare ask.

They sat at her table, which was cluttered with books and bowls and a variety of sewing things. One of the leaded windows in the kitchen was open, and bees would come in and out as they pleased. A few landed on the rim of Erlea's cup, or in her hair, though they did not bother with her guest; these bees, it seemed had manners. For that Rylittle was eternally grateful.

Erlea, for her part, did not seem the least bit bothered by the insects. When one landed on the rim of her cup just before she took a sip, she waited patiently for the bee to explore the edge of the pottery, then drank once the creature deemed the spot fully examined. They sat on her knuckles, along the hem of her sleeve, carelessly dancing in their bee-like way, fat, glossy backs flashing in the yellowy afternoon light that seeped in from the many windows of the cottage. He could not help but watch them as he quickly swallowed his tea – clove and some kind of citrus, sweetened heavily by some of the keeper's wildflower honey – with a measure of wariness. Despite his hostess's relaxed nature, he was on-edge.

Once the tea had been drunk it was time to look over her stock. From her pantry, the keeper presented several fine jars of honey, ranging from dark amber to soft gold in color. Rylittle selected several in the middle of the spectrum, though he preferred the milder colors himself. After paying her, Rylittle thanked the keeper and made a hasty exit. He didn't like being around those bees any more than necessary.

**-XXX-**

Once Rylittle left, I return to my sewing – before his arrival I had been mending a few summer dressed, lazily adding embroidery to the hems of one old summer frock I'd had for neigh twenty years. The violets were delicate, only a few shades off the light purple of the dress. In the spring there isn't much work beyond tending my gardens and generally looking after the bees, collecting the first honey of the season.

Most of the bees have returned to their work. A few flutter near me as I settle in the armchair beside the window. Soon, I am lost in the steady motion of making stitches. It's nearly dark before I become fully aware again. By then I've finished the hems and have moved on to the bodice. I've lit my lamps, eaten a bit, then sit by the fire to read until bed. The bees are now in the hive. All is quiet about my cottage. I'm just about to change into a sleep shirt when there is a knocking about the door.

I rise to answer, straighten myself, then cross warily to the door. I do not often get guests, especially not this late. Twice in one day, too, rarely happens. Wary, I open the door, peering out into the blue-black darkness of the Greenwood forest.

A tall man stands on the flagstone porch. He is grey – in the beard, in his cloak, in his twinkling eyes. Holding a staff and wearing a tall, pointed hat, he's whimsical in his appearance. Wearing a wide smile, he regards me with something akin to cheer.

"Erlea Honeywell of Bee's Keep," he announces. "Your cottage and grounds are just as nicely kept as they told me."

"Thank you, sir," I reply. "I make a point to tend most gently to my lands. How might I be of service to you? Are you lost?"

"No," he assures me cheerily. "I suppose that I am not, provided that you are indeed Caladhiel, also known as Erlea Honeywell to those who walk among Men."

Without another word, he pushes lightly past the threshold to move inside. He removes his hat, setting it on the table, then props his staff beside the door. Once he has done this he stands, waiting for me to invite him to sit. I do, still confused.

"I – I am afraid I do not know you, sir. Though it does not trouble me to host you tonight, I should like to know your name, for I find it unsettling that you should know mine, yet I know not of yours."

"Funny thing, names," he says. "They tend to only barely express a person's parts. Though yours says much about you, young elf…it clearly tells that you are one of two worlds. I am Gandalf the Grey."

It is a name that is familiar to me. _Mithrandir_. The old wizard's reputation is known to many. Relieved, I incline my head. "It is good to meet you, Gandalf the Grey."

He smiles. "It is good to meet you as well, Caladhiel. Or, Erlea, if you prefer."

At the mention of my double names, I wince. "Caladhiel, if you please. Erlea is the name I use only in the world of Men."

Something flickers in the old wizard's eyes. "Very well."

I do not respond to the question in his eyes. Instead, I fill my kettle and set two mugs upon the table. They're lovely mugs, gifts from one of the merchants in Esgaroth after they had sent a particularly incompetent delivery boy to my wood. Wide brims, glazed to a buttery yellow color, flecked with terra cotta and brown. A bee is embossed on the center face of each. I love them so – the craftsmanship is excellent, equal to that of many I'd found at Greenwood. The wizard watches me as a move about the kitchen nook. I avoid his gaze as I measure out the tea, fill the teapot, set a few biscuits upon a plate, and bring the whole arrangement to the table. To my flattery, the wizard sweetens his tea with the small pot of honey at the center of the table. This honey is the color of sunshine, and tastes of spring. It's the first collection of the season.

Once settled, I am contented to speak. "What brings you to the Greenwood, Gandalf?"

"I seek an audience with Oropher. I have council to give him."

"I know not whether he will listen. King Oropher has an open court, but he is not one to heed the words of others," I say with a frown.

The wizard continues. "Nevertheless, I must see him. But, I found it to be late in the day when I reached Esgaroth – I required shelter for the evening. It was there that I was told that you resided on the edge of the forest. So few of your people do, I found it quite intriguing. But then, I thought perhaps it might be fitting that a daughter of half-elven would feel out of place in both worlds."

Many things in his statement give me pause. "You knew my father." It is not a question.

"Elurín was not one for the courts either," he says gently. "I can see that his daughter also favors seclusion."

I look down at my mug. "You are mistaken. It was my mother who wished to distance herself from the court. It was only after she passed that my father wished for distance from the world – any world."

"Which is why he sailed for the Undying Lands."

"Yes."

Gandalf hums, sipping his tea. I follow suit, and a comfortable silence falls between us. I can't bring myself to ask any more questions, fearing the things that might be dug up. The wizard, in the meantime, is looking about my main room.

"You have done well for yourself. I can imagine it must be difficult on your own."

"Not too difficult, no. I have the bees. The land is not too much to manage." I stir another teaspoon of honey into my tea – it is very bad, especially before bed, but I can't bring myself to care too much. "I do not mind it much, no."

"No, I can see you do not."

We talk a while longer, then I offer to show him to my spare bed. It is a pallet in the corner of the spare room, simple, but comfortable. I lead him to the back, show him where to bathe, if need be, and where the sink is. We say good night, then I climb up to my own bed in the loft. Snuggling into the quilt, I am not soon into sleep; the words I had shared with Gandalf trouble me.

I did not inquire as to how he knew my father – and perhaps it is better I did not. I do not often think of my parents. It has been so long….

After a bit of tossing, turning, and staring blanking up into the dark thatch rafters, I finally find sleep.

**-XXX-**

The next morning I serve the wizard a breakfast of stewed apples and wheat bread, along with more tea and a soft goat cheese. He is merry, ready to talk. I am less willing, though I politely carry on a conversation. Thankfully, he begins to tell me a long story of unicorns found in the forest near Bree, so I am required to do nothing more than listen. It is an amusing tale. Soon, I find myself measurably happier.

After breakfast Gandalf takes his leave. Before stepping out of my threshold, he inclines his head to me.

"Thank you, Calahdiel Honeywell. I know my presence was unexpected, though, I hope, not completely disrespectful. I simply hoped to see the daughter of an old friend." He pauses, seeming to hesitate. "I know the memories are, perhaps, not particularly happy ones for you. But you father is a good fellow –"

"There was no harm, Gandalf. I welcome you to come again, and I wish you well in your audience with the king." The words are sincere. Despite the odd situation, I find that I do rather enjoy the old man.

He smiles, eyes crinkling in the corners. "As do I. Keep in good health."

"And you as well."

With that he departs. I watch from the doorway until the gloom of the forest swallows him. Then, I turn back inside, back to my chores.

**-XXX-**

Some darkness summoned the meeting of kings. Thranduil peered around the table to see Elves, Men, and Dwarves alike, conferring quietly as they waited for the meeting to start. The birth of a new alliance was taking place. He was not sure that he liked it, but the elves of Greenwood did not have to like such an arrangement to take part in it, as his father had said. This alliance would be more than beneficial – it would save their lives, save Arda. If the rumors around Sauron and Mordor were true, to ignore such an offer of friendship would be foolish….

Though they sat near Lord Elrond, Gil-galad, and Celeborn, Thranduil made no effort to speak to them. He left the politics to his father, preferring to instead observe the room. Reports are given, promises and trades made. In the end, all leave a touch more aware of the looming threat of war on the horizon.

The very same threat the wizard Gandalf had warned them of, only a few months ago. As he sits at the table, silent, his fist clench, thinking back to when the Grey Wizard stood in their hall, appealing to their court to meet with the other leaders of the realm. He'd traveled throughout Arda, beseeching the kingdoms come together. He'd not been happen to see hear the Wizard's news, but he'd taken his advice, and accompanied Oropher to the meeting of all the kingdoms.

"What think you of the progress today?" Oropher asks his son as they ride for the Greenwood.

Thranduil takes his time in answering. Tightening his grip on his reigns, he answers impassively, "What was needed to be said was said. All we may do now is wait. Train our men. Forge more weapons."

Oropher nods. "If we do not ride to war before the year is out I shall be surprised. Though, not disappointed. We must ready the forest. I have no doubt that there is an approaching threat from the south. We may have to ask those beyond the palace boarders to join us for their own safety."

The thought of asking the rural, woodiest of wood elves into their home is unappealing. Despite the distance that will inevitably be placed between, the prince still crinkles his nose at the thought. Those that live outside of their direct protection are fiercely independent, wild elves. Some might say uncivilized. They lived beyond the straight rule of the Greenwood throne for a reason, that reason usually being a wish for seclusion, a dislike of court event, nobles, or simply regulation.

"We shall do what we must," Thranduil answers diplomatically. "I would take no pleasure in moving any of our people from their home, but if the situation calls for it, I should not hesitate."

"It will be a good time off," his father agrees. "Will you be riding forth with me to Dagorlad, should we be asked to go?"

"Of course. I should not dream of doing otherwise. I will command by your side, always."

"You shall command by my side until I no longer have a side," Oropher smiles.

"May that never be, my lord."

"I know you would be most bereft without your father."

"Myself and the wood. I do not know what I might do without your council." Thranduil looks to his father in all seriously. "I do not know how I might be king without your guide."

"Do not say that," the king scolds sternly. "I have done all that I can to see that you could carry on without me should the need arise. You will be a good king, Thranduil."

"All forbid that I should be."

"Yet you might very well be. Welcome the crown, Thranduil, should it come to you."

The prince does not answer. They ride on, passing through the tall, antler-like gates of the Greenwood forest. Once they are within the wood, both men feel their hearts calm significantly. For the duration of the ride, the prince lets all thoughts of war fade from his mind.

**-XXX-**

**I promised I'd have a LOTR piece out soon! This is my first one – I fell in love with the movies after Desolation of Smaug. **

**Please let me know what you think! I've done as much research as possible, with a little tweaking. Please let me know if something is off! Questions, comments, critiques, concerns, I try to answer them all! **


	2. Chapter 2

**Not a huge response to the last chapter, but I'll keep posting! This chapter is significantly longer than most will be. Enjoy! **

**-XXX-**

Following the wizard's departure I go about my usual morning routine – milking the goats, checking on the bees, sweeping the house, and so on. I'm watering my small plot of herbs when a voice calls from the gate. I look up to see Beriana opening the rickety little gate, waving as she approaches. She is armed with a basket and full bouquet of flowers from the forest. I smile easily at her, setting down my watering can.

"Have you come all this way to give me these?" I ask, accepting the flowers, burying my nose in for a hearty sniff. They're dark purples and delicate little white and pink flowers.

"Unfortunately, no." She smiles, wiggling her basket. "I've got a few orders. Greenwood loves your honey, Caladhiel."

"Ah. Typical," I sigh, teasingly. "The people only want me for my bees."

"Not I," the elf maiden declares dramatically. "I am far more interested in your company."

I hug her, careful not to crush my flowers. We had grown up together, Beriana and I. Despite my seclusion from most of the forest population, I had spent a great deal of time with her in my youth, as our parents often dealt in business, as we to today. Her parents works in glass, creating the finest glasses, plates, windows, and trinkets. I own several pretty window charms made by her father. Beriana now crafts herself, creating pendants that are quite popular among the young ladies of court – being inexpensive, nearly every girl can purchase one, and often many, and they are just as pretty as jewels.

I invite her inside, putting the kettle on to boil, then I set about finding a vase for my flowers. It's actually one Beriana made ages ago, one of her first attempts as glass blowing. She winces as a set the blue-streaked vase upon the table. I begin arranging the blossoms, listening as she tells me the latest from the wood.

"There's a good deal of bustle about the spring festival," she tells me, rolling her eyes. "Where the venders shall be, what time the dancing shall start, should we have flowers or more greenery….It's an utter waste of breath, if you ask me, but someone ought to tend to the details, I suppose."

I hum, shaking my head. "You could not pay me to be a part of that mess. I cannot even imagine." I stroke a few purple coneflower by the petals. A bee has drifted in, and curiously lands in the black middle.

"But there is still fun about it," Beriana admits. She's eyeing the bee. While generally more comfortable around my bees than most folk are, she still watches them carefully. "You are coming this year, are you not?"

"Ah, I don't know," I say, awkwardly. "I don't think I'll be much missed.

"I will miss you!" she assures me. "Come, we can dance, and wear the flower garlands! The wine is supposed to be divine this year, they say the king picked it out himself!"

"I don't know, Beriana," I repeat, turning to the stove as the kettle begins to hiss and spit. I bring it to the table to fill the pot, sighing. "You know how out-of-place I feel. It not like they want the half-blood to be there."

My friend scowls. "Do not call yourself that."

"It is what they would say."

Beriana grabs my hands, forcing me to look at her. "Prove them wrong. Show then that you are not going to hide and sulk in your cottage. They won't think any differently of you if you continue in this manner, hiding yourself from your people!"

I look at her, uneasy. "I am not hiding."

"You do hide," she accuses, squeezing my hands. "You do."

"I do not care what they think –"

"You may think that, but you do not believe it." Her eyes are wide, pleading. "Come, Cala. I miss my friend. We have not attended any of these festivals or feasts in far too long, too many years."

Hesitant, I sit, letting her hands slip from mine. It has been a long time since I went into town on a full-court day, with so much activity. But it would be good to get out…to celebrate the season…

"Very well," I say finally. "You've worn me down. I shall go."

Overjoyed, Beriana all but leaps across to table to embrace me. "Oh, we shall have such fun! What will you were? I have a dress in mind, but we ought not to clash –"

Her silliness over such trivial matters serves to sooth and amuse me, and for the next hour we talk of dresses and jewelry and dancing. Reminiscing, we agree that it shall be nice to attend as an adult, rather than a youth – now we might actually have true dance partners, the kind that won't stumble over our feet. I am glad that I am going with her – partially because my friend's beauty will surely cast most eyes from me. With soft green eyes and shining hair the rich color of chestnuts, a lithe and willow figure, Beriana catches the eyes of many – she is extremely pretty, even for an elf.

Before she leaves, I give her five jars of honey. She had taken orders from others in town, and promised to have more next week. I tuck a sixth jar in her basket. "It's from last summer," I tell her. "When the apple blossoms were out. It tastes faintly of apple."

Another hug, and she too disappears into the gloom of the Greenwood. The forest that ought to be my home, yet, I cannot stand to be in it.

**-XXX- **

Two weeks later finds me at my friend's house, my hair being mercilessly combed by Arhiel, Beriana's mother.

"Stop fidgeting, _mell," _she scolds as she pulls through another tangle. "Goodness, you have not changed a day – still as tender headed as when you were a little girl."

"Sorry," I murmur, fingering the sleeve of my dress. The hem is patterned with beads, small clusters connected by silver threads. It looks quite nice against the rose hue of the gown. It's a rather old dress. Simple in its cut, with a wide round neck, sleeves that flare at the elbows, and a full skirt that nearly touches the ground. It's lucky, though, as my slippers are worn and likely out of style. But they're soft, made a fawn-colored suede.

Arhiel clucks as she begins arranging my hair. "You have such lovely locks, girl, I don't know why you simply let them lay about in braids. A why you never see the need to brush it," she adds. Twisting a few locks into a complicated braid, she peers in the mirror. Narrowing her eyes, she regards her work for several moments before taking it out. Eventually, she decides upon pushing it back away from my face, drawing the top layer to the back to be secured by a wooden comb, carved to resemble lily. The rest is free, and is brushed behind my shoulders.

"You have such lovely hair, Caladhiel," she sighs. "It is unique among our people."

She is not wrong. The dark gold isn't typical of Silvan hair. Most have darker hair – auburn, brown, black. I get my hair from my mother, though my eyes are entirely my father's – a bright blue-silver, supposedly a gift from his own grandmother, who was rumored to be Lùthien.

Beriana appears with her father in tow. Her eyes sparkle and her cheeks are pink, excitement already rising though we've not yet left her house. She wears a light blue dress, the color of the sky on a perfect summer afternoon – a sky few of the Greenwood seem to see between the trees and Oropher's underground realm. Her sleeves are cut high, allowing her shoulders to be seen as filmy blue and white fabric falls along side her arms. She's wearing a necklace of clear glass beads, and her hair has been arranged in a complex crown of braids. She is beautiful.

"Is she ready?" she asks her mother. "The dancing is about to start."

"I think she is presentable for polite company." Arhiel smiles. "It truly was not as much work as you led me to believe, _iell_."

"You are incorrigible," I tell my friend as I rise. "Truly."

Beriana beams at me. "You look beautiful. Oh, we shall have such fun! Wait," she pauses. "No jewelry?"

Embarrassed, I clutch the small bag I brought, which had been on Arhiel's vanity. "I brought a few things," I admit. "Though, I think it may be too much."

"It's the first day of spring, it's never too much! Let me see."

I remove a pair of simple silver earring. They're a delicate twist of metal, creating a knot in the shape of a rounded diamond – almost like a leaf. Beriana approves them, as well as a silver chain, slightly tarnished, which possess creamy river pearls strung every few links. Once I have put them on, I am deemed "ready."

Dorith, Beriana's father, escorts us all to the center green, where the festivities will take place. Wooden posts surround the area, and are draped with great garlands of daffodils, lilies, and various greenery. The music hasn't yet started, though musicians are setting up. Vendors line one wall of the green, and open further back. They sell all sorts of things – food, flowers, jewelry, masks, and other trinkets. At a dais at the head of the green, I can see palace servants in their work shifts preparing the king's chair and the seats of all others who will join him. It's one of the few nights of the year where those of the court and us of commoner birth will mingle. Tomorrow festivities will continue inside the palace, in the king's great hall. But tonight is our celebration, and Oropher will, as ever, graciously walk in our midst, as will his son, advisor, and who ever else is content to join.

My friend's parents leave us. We go, arm-in-arm, to see to those who have already arrived. Several friends of our youth are at food stands, sampling the fares. My long absence is not remarked upon, though embraces are shared all the way around.

"Is this not fun?" Beriana asks me as we share a cup of sweet cider, leaning in closely. "The dancing has not even started and we've already got the eyes of many."

It is true – the eyes of many men are upon my friend. But any additional gazes seem to be cast upon me. Most of them are curious, double-takes, though several are less-than-kind. I keep close to Beriana.

"You have certainly garnered several lingering glances," I murmur. "Though I do not know about myself. Do not worry so for me, Beriana, I shall have a fine enough time. I endeavor to."

"That's the spirit," she says, satisfied, tossing her head back to finish the last of our cider. "Oh, I think the procession is about to start!"

Indeed, several member of the guard are working their way through the crowd. I pull Beriana back as they near. The king moves through, nodding regally at all of those he passes. His gaze lingers briefly on me before moving on.

I take a moment to wonder, briefly, if he recognized me. My father had been, after all, a friend. But probably not – it has been a long time.

The dancing begins, and things move into full swing. I am often at the side, dancing only a little, watching Beriana change partners again and again, listening to the musicians pick out wonderful tunes that fill the green. To my surprise, I am enjoying myself.

However, the night is far from perfect. I endure the harmless glances of the curious, but the eyes and words of people who are far less inoffensive eventually intrude. It is when Beriana is again dancing when one tall elf, one of Oropher's off-duty guards judging by the broach holding his cloak, pushes forcefully past me, though I am not the least bit in his way. I gasp loudly when his hands brush over my rump, and protest loudly.

"As if I would touch you," he sneers. "Half-blood."

In the folds of my dress my hands curl to fists. "Better half-elven than a senseless brute," I reply. Around us, others have parted, mouths agape. Across the dancing ring, I can see Dorith rising from his seat beside Arhiel, brow furrowed.

The dark-haired elf pulls close, eyes glittering. They are dark, near-black, like that of a bear's. Or a pig. "Say that again, bitch," he dares me.

I open my mouth, ready to give him another earful, when a thundering voice gives halt to all motion in our corner. A tall, fair elf strides forward. He does not need to push – all move automatically out of his way. Finely dressed, he is clearly one of nobility. He stands behind the brute, forcing the guard to remain trapped between me and the new elf.

"My lord," the brute begins, turning to the fair elf. "She was causing a fuss. I brushed past her and she accused me of –"

"I heard what she said. I also saw you accost her."

The brute falters, but shakes his head. "She was asking for it, coming here," he argues. "Practically threw herself in my way, the tainted little tart."

"You go too far, Elith," the fair elf says. "Apologize."

The elf called Elith gapes. The fair elf nods. Eventually, the brute straightens, turning stiffly to me.

"I apologize," he mutters. "Forgive this elf for any wrongs he has done you."

I look past him to the fair elf who is watch us. After Elith speaks I give the barest of nods, then he backs away, clearly hoping to leave without further incident. However, the elf who had intervened stops him, catching his shoulder, and says quietly, "If I ever hear of you speaking or touching her or any other maid in such a manner again well shall have a problem, Elith. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, my prince." The brute's mouth barely moves.

He is released. The fair elf – the prince – turns to the crowd we've amassed. "No trouble here. Go, enjoy the festival. Spring is upon us!"

There is a small cheer of agreement, and the crowd moves on. Slipping through the masses, Beriana's hand finds mine and her person is soon beside me, breathless with pink-tinged cheeks.

"Cala!" she cries. "Are you alright? _Ada _said –"

"All is well," the prince answers for me.

Beriana's eyes are as wide as dinner plates. Squeezing her hand, I murmur, "I am fine."

But she ignores me, having eyes only for the fair elf before us. He is very tall and solid – an oak of a fellow. Though I have seen him many times at a distance, I would have not guessed him to be so physically imposing. He radiates control. Power. Ruthlessness. Cold eyes put me even more on edge – though, not so much so that I fail to curtsy. Beriana, a few steps behind me, had done so almost thirty seconds ago.

"My prince," we both murmur, heads bowed. My eyes only remain on the floor for a moment. I quickly look up again.

"Thank you, my lord," Beriana manages. "I should not have left her alone, she is – that was very kind of you."

"No trouble. No one of the Greenwood ought to be trouble with such savages. I apologize, my lady –"

"Caladhiel," I say automatically.

The corners of his mouth pull upwards briefly. "Caladhiel," he repeats. "I am sorry that you should be so bothered. He will be sternly dealt with – I shall see that his commander speaks with him. If you are ever bothered again, please, let me know."

"I – I shall."

Studying us with a remote interest, the prince shifts forward. "My ladies," he says. His voice is utterly…solid. Strong. "I hope you are otherwise enjoying the festivities."

"Yes, m'lord," Beriana answers swiftly. "It has been lovely."

"Indeed," he agrees. His gaze has settled on me. "Lovely."

I duck my head. "Have you had a pleasant time, Prince Thranduil?" I ask the ground.

His voice beckons for me to look up. "I have."

Blue-grey eyes, hard shards of ice, peer at me impassively. I stare back for several moments before I feel forced to tear my gaze away.

"That is wonderful, my lord," I say.

We stand in silence for several minutes. Awkwardly, Beriana shifts from foot to foot. She nudges me. But I am resistant to her pressure. She eventually sighs, then asks sweetly, "Would you care to dance, my lord? My Caladhiel is a fine dancer, but she's been lacking partners this evening."

If it were socially appropriate I would kick her. However, due to the nature of our company and the weight of my gown, it's nearly impossible to throw any kind of nudge. Her hand finds mine in the folds of my skirt, squeezing tightly.

The prince seems just as surprised as I. Though, not nearly so panicked. He eyes me before turning to Beriana. "I should be delighted –"

"I must go," I say impulsively, drawing away as I speak. "I need – air. Forgive me, my lord, I find myself feeling rather…claustrophobic. Please, pardon me."

For a brief moment, he appears stunned, then impassivity slides back onto his features. "Of course."

I bow hastily. "My lord. Beriana," I murmur before slipping through the crowd.

"I'm sorry, my lord," Beriana apologizes after me. "She is not herself tonight. I am sure she would love to dance after she has gotten some air."

It takes some time before I reach a part of the forest that is relatively quiet. I can still pick out the yellow-orange glow of lamplight between the long dark lines of trees. Occasionally a note of music or cackle of laughter breaks through. I find a tree to lean against, pressing my back into it, breathing slowly. I had not lied – I did need air. Though the festival is held out of doors, something about the crowd stifled me, left me feeling…trapped. Here, I could breathe.

The woods are ominous in the dark. Long shadows are cast by a half-moon. Fireflies drift by, aimlessly blinking their tiny green-ish lights. I follow them with my eyes, sinking against the trunk of the tree I stand beneath, lazily watching the insects as they float through the clearing.

I could very well fall asleep. But Beriana would surely be looking for me soon. I was to spend the night at her house so that I might attend tomorrow's festivities as well. The bees would be fine for one day. Still, I had hesitated in leaving them. They could be temperamental following an absence.

A sudden sound breaks my reverie. The crack of a twig snapped underfoot. I struggle to stand – the dress is absolutely dreadful when it comes to swift motion – but am halted when my intruder makes himself known.

"I do not believe the air of the wood is any different than that of the green."

Prince Thranduil emerges from behind me. He looks less stern now, a certain softness having entered his features. Perhaps it is a result of the dim lighting. I straighten myself as best I can, bowing my head, avoiding his eyes when I lift it.

"Perhaps it is not," I admit. "Though it feels more free to my lungs."

He nears. "I frightened you."

"I was merely startled. My lord," I add quickly.

"My apologies."

Embarrassed, I fold my arms against my waist. "No, you must have mine. Forgive me for failing to thank you. And leaving your company so swiftly…."

Heavily shadowed, his eyes seek mine. A few steps closer, he asks, "Are you so opposed to dancing with me you must flee to the woods, Caladhiel?"

"No. I mean, it is not strictly you, my prince. It is those watching I wish to avoid."

"Ah. You do not care for attention. That is far more admirable than simply disliking the prince."

I realize that he is teasing me. Ducking my head, I smile. "I suppose it is, sire."

"So you do not hate me?"

"I have been given no cause to. Ought I?"

He smiles now. "I do not know. There are surely some out there who loathe my father, and therefore, by proxy, myself. I am glad that you do not count yourself among them."

"Kings and princes are just a elven as I, it is not within my power to judge them," I say, repeating something my father once recited, then wincing. I am not as elven as this king and this prince.

He regards me. "You are the beekeeper, are you not? The one who lives between here and Esgaroth?"

"That is me."

Nodding, he moves again, this time to circle the clearing. I remain standing, watching, silent. Thranduil cuts an impressive figure in his brocade tunic and deep green velvet cloak. A circlet of silver set with a green stone sits on his head, his hair, the color of moon-light, white-gold, brushed back nearly. It is ever-curious to me that the Sindarians, so different from us, rule. While all elves are beautiful by Men's standards, the Sidarians are ethereal in their fairness.

After inspecting the area, the prince speaks again, gazing up at the half-moon above.

"I'm sorry for intruding. If it means anything to you, I did not mean to follow, truly. I meant to take a brief walk alone, when I happened upon you I felt the need to make myself known."

"There is no need for apology. This is your wood. You may go where you please."

He looks at me sharply. "You have a tongue, do you not?"

I realize who I am speaking to and immediately wish to curl into myself for shame. "I only meant that you harmed me not, my lord."

The prince relaxes. "That is good to know." He stops his circling just before me, pausing to find words. "Will you return with me? The hour grows late, and I do not feel comfortable leaving you alone out here. I must be going back soon."

"As should I."

"And will you dance?"

Here I hesitate. "I think not, my lord."

"Then tomorrow? Will you come again?" He nears, coming so close that I can see the delicate streaks of silver in his irises.

"I had planned on it, yes."

"Then I shall see you." It is a promise, said lightly as a hand catches mine. "Caladhiel Honeywell."

My name is said with such careful pronunciation that I feel my chest give a flutter. _"Silliness," _I scold.

With that, I am lead back to the green. We are silent through the walk, though the prince does not drop my hand until we enter the circle of light. Beriana and her parents are waiting there for me. My friend's eyes manage to lock onto our connected hands before they part.

She waits as we say good-bye to one another, then takes me by the arm, leading me into the crowd of dancers.

"What happened?" she hisses as we skip through a circle in time with a playful flute.

"I merely went into the woods. The prince found me as he took a walk. We spoke, and he escorted me back."

"What did you speak on?"

"Nothing of too much interest," I say vaguely.

"Did you apologize for your rude and abrupt departure?"

"Yes." We duck under a pair who lift up their arms, twisting with the trill of the music. "Of course."

"Oh, Cala," she sighs. "You're honestly terrible at this. Details!"

"Later. Tonight, before bed," I assure her. At the edge of the dancing circle stands the prince. He is clapping along with all of the other spectators, though his eyes seem to follow me. "Promise."

**-XXX-**

I tell her all that was said. Neither of us knows what to make of it. We eventually drift off, curled together.

The next day was much of the same – several hours of preparing for the second dance, much hair combing, etc. I do not complain as Arhiel arranges my hair again, this time electing to create a crown of delicate braids across my crown. Her daughter lends me a few glass-tipped pins that reflect the light, twinkling brilliantly as my head turns.

I wear a different dress, this one the color of cream, the lightest breath of yellow and white. It has a beaded collar, requiring no necklace, and a bodice that includes more beadwork that extends down to my waist. A sheer cape is attached at the back, meeting my bell sleeves at the hems. Again, it is an old dress – one of Arhiel's, actually, from her youth.

"You look lovely," Arhiel sighs. I smile at her, rising, straightening fabric as I stand. From the bed, Beriana dreamily gestures at me. I join her on the bed, rolling my eyes. She scoots closer, twisting a few locks of hair.

"What are you thinking of?" I ask as Arhiel passes through, heading towards her own room, likely to get dress. "Come, I know you are preoccupied with something. You are sighing and humming, like a lovesick loon. Who did you met last night?"

She smiles. "It was no one, really."

I wait. Beriana hugs a pillow, squeezing it against her chest. In time, she's bursting into giggles, shaking and holding her sides.

"Oh, Cala. He's absolutely darling."

"Name?" I ask patiently.

"Ulain." Her sigh drips with wistfulness. "He's on Thranduil's guard. He works primarily at the gates."

"Tell me of him," I say.

And she does, until we're forced to leave for the festivities. She describes his noble bow, broad shoulders, warm brown eyes, and so on. They only danced once – while I was in the wood – and he bought her a cider, and they talked for a time. But he danced with others, and did not ask to see her again, so her heart is unsure. I ask all of the appropriate questions. As we walk out, I make her promise me that she will seek a second dance. Archly, she dares me to take up Thranduil's offer.

"Dance with him. He clearly desire its." She smiles knowingly, tucking my arm under hers as we follow her parents, heading towards the great doors of Oropher's underground realm. A line is already formed, moving slowly into the black mouth of the cave.

" I don't know about that," I say, shaking my head with laughter. "I am a bee keeper, Beriana, not a lady or a princess. He'd be wasting his time with me."

"Would he?" my friend teases. "The king's son, so scorned by a bee keeper? That will make for an amusing anecdote at your wedding feast."

I nudge her with my elbow, blushing as we pass through the massive oak doors. Lanterns set into the stonework guide us across a bridge into a corridor. The air grows chilled as we descend – not a terrible thing, as I have no doubt the large number of bodies in one room will make things quite sweltering.

Eventually the corridor opens on a large, well-lit room. Tall columns line the wall, with tapestries and regal flags strung between. The floors are polish marble, but the ceiling is so lofty that it is difficult to make out. Oropher already sits at the dais on a banquet table, smiling merrily at all who enter. Musicians are warming up. People mingle, eagerly anticipating the dancing. Keeping her arm latched onto mine Beriana drifts almost aimlessly through the crowd, seemingly without any intent or direction. She is doing her best to appear relaxed and careless, but I can tell she's looking for something. Or someone. Likely this Ulain.

"He is not here," she sighs when the music properly begins. I pull her into a reel, offering words of comfort.

"He will come. This is the spring festival, no one would miss it."

"You would," she accuses.

"I'm different."

"Oh, Caladhiel," my friend sighs. "You're only different if you insist on being so. By acting so aloof you're just giving them more fuel."

I open my mouth, intent on answering, but I don't know what I might say.

We dance for a time before I call off, claiming weariness. It's when I take a seat at one of the tables on the edge of the dance floor that the prince appears, his entrance all pomp and circumstance. As everyone else in the room, I watch him move through the crowd.

He's not particularly loved. Respected, yes. But Thranduil's colder nature does not strongly lend to the affections of his people. Still, he commands the gaze of all when he openly enters a room. Not all eyes that are upon him are not particularly kind, though I feel the general attitude is a favorable one.

An hour into the ball, I've already seen Beriana change partners four times – though, once, she goes back to the same fellow. Being tall and broad-shouldered, I assumed him to be the elusive Ulain. And if his expression is any indication, he feels as much regard for Beriana as I suspect she feels for him. They had eyes only for one another on their second dance.

I take only a few turns about the dance floor. For the most part, I am contented to stay near friends.

Eventually, I grow tired of the crowds. Longing for a touch of seclusion, I slip between the columns, eager to have space and air. The heavily shadowed space behind the walls is perfectly sheltered from the other party-goers. It's far from quiet, but it's what I've got.

What trouble it seems, to dress up and arrange one's hair and go out to see others, all for the sake of a little socializing. It is exhausting. I do not know how the nobles do it.

Speaking of nobles…

The tapestry nearest me shifts, rippling, and the king's son ducks through, looking behind his back to make sure he is unseen. Surprised, I stop in my pacing.

Tonight he wears a maroon brocade coat and grey satin tunic, trousers of a darker charcoal. He wears no crown.

"Are you going to make a habit of this? Following maidens when they slip away from parties?"

"Only when if they continue to slip away," he answers readily. "Why do you hide, Caladhiel?"

His question makes me uncomfortable. "I'm not hiding."

"Are you not? Here, in the woods…in your cottage at the edge of my father's forest?"

I frown. "I do not hide, Prince Thranduil. I simply…do not prefer the company of others, often."

He considers this. "Neither do I, honestly." His tone is curious. Almost confused.

"You're the prince, you're supposed to at least pretend to like people."

Thranduil smiles at this. "Too true."

We fall silent, then. Thranduil soon takes to pacing as I lean against the nearest column, observing him. Something weighs heavily on his mind, his brow furrows with each step he takes. The song changes three times before I speak again.

"What troubles you?"

He glances back, mind-stride. "Troubles me?"

"Yes," I say patiently. "You pace like a man heavily preoccupied. What weighs on your mind, my prince?"

He continues walking, considering. "It is nothing too dramatic," he assures me. "Merely some trouble in surrounding lands."

"Strife between Mordor and Gondor, you mean?"

Looking up sharply, he again takes pause. Frowning, he nears, straightening the non-existent wrinkles along his cuff as he nears. "You are well-informed. Yes. The growing threat of war is on the minds of all those on my father's council. I am sure you have heard of the Alliance…."

"So it is a true threat," I murmur, pushing myself off of the column, crossing my arms.

Unhappily, the prince nods. "War is on the horizon. It's just a matter of when."

"I am sorry to hear that."

He snorts. "Not as sorry as we all will be in a few months time, if things continue escalating. My father is to begin gathering troops within the month to send to the Alliance."

This surprises me – I hadn't known that things had escalated so, that an army was to be soon required. Though, if the rumors were to be taken as true, Sauron was not one to use diplomatic methods. War might be our only choice.

No wonder our prince is distracted.

Abruptly, Thranduil approaches me. "Why do you not dance?"

"I was tired and I wished for some air."

Hand out, he nears. "Will you dance with me now? Last night I was denied."

"I suppose you're not too used to that, my prince?" I'm taken aback by my own coyness. The prince merely grins.

"You might be surprised. Come." My hands fit neatly into his and suddenly, we're turning in time with the music. He's graceful, unsurprisingly, leading us with the greatest of ease through the motions of some well-known dance. I only just manage to keep up – I'm not particularly skilled in dancing, though I do enjoy it. Thranduil makes me feel fluid. We move past the columns, twisting and twirling over and over, our steps light.

We do not speak. I'm too distracted, trying to not step on my monarch's feet. Thranduil just gazes thoughtfully down at me. When the song fades, we slow until we are stilled, our steps halting, left standing face-to-face. His hands are on my waist and linked to my hand respectively, grip tightening briefly as we pause together. I let my hand slide down his shoulder.

Brilliant grey-blue eyes find mine and hold my gaze. Hands tighten again. "Thank you."

Realizing who, exactly, is holding me, I make to withdraw. "I should thank you, my prince," I say as lightly as I can. "You honor me."

Those are the things you're supposed to say to the nobles. But Thranduil shakes his head. "You honor me. Truly. Now, I must go…I will undoubtedly be missed."

"Yes," I agree. "You will."

We part slowly, each moving back into the crowd to our respective parties. I do not speak to him for the remainder of the evening, though I do see him several more times. When Beriana and her family begin to give their goodbyes, I see him at the high table. Our eyes meet, and he give me a nod.

I do not see him again for some time.

**-XXX-**

**I'm trying to follow the timeline as close as possible. This is obvious before the defeat of Sauron. If you have any questions or clarification, don't hesitate to message me!**

**If you're interested or you're a fan of my Sherlock piece Silhouettes , the sequel is up and running! Check out Shadows for my profile!**

**Review would be grand!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Keeper, Chapter 3**

**Awesome response guys, thank you very much!**

**-XXX-**

"Did you hear of Gandalf's visit to court?" Beriana asks nearly a month after the festival.

I frown. "That was some time back, was it not?"

"Yes, but word is only just getting around," she says. We're sitting in the grass near my apple trees, leaning against the trunk of one. The apples are still green, small rocks. In a few weeks time they'll be ripe enough for harvest. I look forward to the cider they'll make.

"Gossip usually goes a bit faster than that, I should think."

She shrugs. "This wasn't as scandalous as Lord Harvil being found in a bush with a scullery maid. After the festival there was quite a lot more news to go around."

"And what did the Grey Wizard say?"

"He was passing along warning of Mordor. Lord Sauron's forces grow. He was urging Oropher to meet with the other elven kings and kings of Men."

"They're building an army," I say automatically.

Beriana glances at me curiously. "Something the prince told you on one of your private jaunts?"

I blush. "Yes. Though, I told you, Beriana, I've not seen him in nearly a month. There is nothing between us."

"I never said as much."

I give her a look. We both burst out into giggles.

Soon enough, I sober. "There is war coming, isn't there?"

Uncertain, Beriana fiddles with her skirt, looking down at the grass. "Ulain says as much." She gazes up at the branches overhead, searching for pieces of sky between the wood and leaves. "There is whisper among the guards that the king will join with Alliance when the time comes. And…" she hesitates. "There is word that a darkness has cast itself over the land of Men."

"Darkness?"

She shakes her head. "No one can say what. Just…darkness."

We lay back in the grass together. Our girlhood has been long gone for some time now, however, I cannot shake the feeling that our true growth is yet to come upon us. War shall test us all..

**-XXX-**

The messenger comes on one innocently sunny morn, when the early autumn leaves are crisply falling and the day is still warm enough to be pleasant. It is an unexpected visit, to be sure, but I accept him nonetheless. Part of me fears it is a summons from the prince I'm sure I offended at the solstice. Unfortunately, the news is worse. With the growing threat of Sauron's army, all elves living beyond the village surrounding Oropher's underground fortress must temporarily move within palace walls before the week's end. I am far from pleased.

"This is silliness," I tell the messenger scornfully. "There's no cause for me to leave when they're coming from the southern part – I'm not uprooting myself for such nonsense."

"Orders," the youth says, clearly weary from dealing with rural out-of-town elves such as myself. We're an independent sort, I suppose. "Bring whatever you can carry, men can be sent to gather whatever else might need tending to or is too large for you handle. Send word by falcon –"

I wave him off. "No, no, I'll need none of that. I'll come. You may mark me compliant."

"Very good, my lady." He makes the mark with his pencil upon his pad. "By week's end, remember."

"Yes," I sigh.

The report of weir attacks is likely what spurred this abrupt order. A family was killed only a week ago. Even those of the Lake-town knew of it – Rylittle informed me when he came around for another trade. As he counted out his silver pieces he asked me of the elves' reaction to it. Being unaware myself, I could not tell him.

I wait three days before packing. Beriana joins me. She's a terrible packer – if it were up to her, all of my fluffy gowns, jars of honey and fine pottery would be coming with me. My bags couldn't manage as much, and lord knows I should not need any of it. I'll be living with her family for the time being, though in a few short weeks I would move into one of the palace rooms held for such occasions – Dorith and Arhiel could only support me for so long, and the glassmaker's house is a tiny fit for four people.

The bees will be hardest to live behind. I loathe to leave them most of all, though they shall be perfectly content without me. In the nights before my departure, I go outside at twilight to stand among the hives, listening to the melodic buzzing, saying goodbye in my own way. They seem to know what is happening. Each comes to me, landing on my feet, hands, and shoulders, touching down only briefly before alighting into the air again. It's a small comfort.

**-XXX-**

When the day comes, Beriana and I carry two packs back to the Greenwood. After I settle in, I travel to the palace to make my presence known. There is already a line when I arrive. Grumbling forest-dwellers, no one in this line is happy. I cannot blame them.

"Name?" the clerk asks when I reach the head of the line. They are weary, with little patience left to them after what has likely been a long week of registering ill-mannered forest folk such as myself.

"Honeywell. Caladhiel."

He scans the list. "Of the Northeastern wood?"

"Yes."

A few marks are made. "You will be staying with us?"

"In a month. For the moment I'll be with the Birchbarks."

There is a slight sneer. "Very well. Your quarters shall be prepared in a month's time."

"Thank you." I step back, turning to make my way past the line. The sooner I am free of the depths of the palace, the sooner I can breath again. The darkness of Oropher's underground realm makes me titchy. Claustrophobic.

On my way back up, crossing the initial bridge, I'm surprised by the expressions of all those who pass me. It is as if something just behind me is marvel. I turn as I step onto the bridge, finding Prince Thranduil striding just behind me. I halt, turning to fully face him, dropping into a low curtsy. I wear brown breeches and a loose white tunic with soft boots laced about my ankles, nothing that one would intentionally wear before a member of royalty.

"My prince, you surprise me," I tell the ground.

"Caladhiel. What brings you to my home?" He nears, becoming level with me as I rise. We walk together, the prince a step or so ahead in stride.

"Registering, my lord."

"Ah." He bows his head. "I remember. My father is requiring all outside of the palace's circle to return."

"I am aware," I say evenly. "As I am one of those folk."

He smiles. "I did not think you would be happy to go."

"If my king commands it, it must be for some good. I trust his decision, even if I do not like what I am told to do."

Thranduil's smile widens. "Even if it is not the king, but the prince?"

My mouth opens. "You?"

"My father heeds my counsel. Particularly when it is wise counsel. It was best that all of you remain near for the time being."

We've nearly crossed the bridge. "Then I shall trust it to be wise."

"Where are you staying?"

"With Birchbarks, for the time being. Then I'll move here, within the month. I don't wish to crowd Beriana's family."

He ponders this. "The glassmakers?"

"Yes. I believe one of your guardsmen, Ulain, is quite taken with her." I smile at the thought. My friend is equally infatuated. She'd seen the guard several times since the festival. "And she with him."

"I saw them dancing. They do appear happy together. Where are you going now?"

"Back to the Birchbark's."

We stand at the gates now, my back to the forest. The guards that oversee the post bow readily. Thranduil waves them off.

"I apologize for any inconvenience this must bring you," the prince says quietly. "Being away from your bees…."

I close my eyes. "Yes. It's going to be hard." I open my eyes, smiling tightly. "They will be alright, I am certain. They're very intuitive creatures. And I plan on going out to visit." I glance up at him, as if daring him to forbade me. With the turn of his lips I can see that the thought does not please him. "And it cannot be helped. It is for the best, as you have said."

"Indeed. Should you find yourself in need of any aid…please, do not hesitate to ask me."

"Thank you." I bow. "I shall."

"Please do." He lowers his head. "I shall see you, soon, I expect."

I make to speak, but he is already turning away.

**-XXX-**

Every morning, I go out to greet the dawn. A few bees join me. I hold my fingers aloft, letting them land. I stroke their fat velvety backs, sighing. Occasionally one will land on my cheek or nose. As if to reassure me that all is well. They will skirt across my skin, softly, humming.

"Do you make much honey?" I whisper. "Do the wildflowers find you well? How fare my apple trees?"

They never answer.

As fall nears and cold approaches, fewer and fewer come, until there are none and I am left alone in the mornings, tucking my shawl against me.

**-XXX-**

The month goes, and I am soon set-up in one of the guest quarters of the palace. The Birchbarks try to persuade me to stay, but I know that my presence causes undue stress upon the household; it is time for me to go. Beriana comes to help me settle, babbling on about Ulain all the way, and how lucky and glamorous I am to now live in the palace, how I shall be privy to all that goes on. I do not think she quite grasp how vast of a place it is. It's a underground city, vast. I shall have little contact with any royalty, any persons of court – not that I should care to mingle with them.

My room is small, windowless. I hate it. Beriana hangs a tapestry above my bed to make if feel more homey. It's one from my mother's family – a tall hazel tree set against a golden background, bordered by a swirling pattern of blue and silver. But it's not enough – I long for true trees. Sky. _Air. _To reach that I must walk for ages, through tunnels, over bridges and stairs, past guards.

They say it is not safe for us to venture far out into the forest. I believe them, truly. But that does not mean I do not long for home. Elves do not belong underground.

I take my meals with the Birchbarks or the others who have been forced to reside within Oropher's walls. There are farmers, fishermen, hunters, people whose trade requires them to live beyond our villages and palace. Still, others simply wish for space, distance from others of their own kind. Hermits, I suppose. They're not terribly company. Most are bitter about having to move in. The younger ones are eager, excited for the change – mostly the children of farmers.

I spend my days reading, sewing, or sleeping. I'll visit the Birchbarks, and other friends, take a turn about the village to stretch my legs. I'll go to the glassmaker's shop to watch Dorith shape fine vases and lamps. Beriana and I will stitch together, mending, adding simple flower work to dresses, towels, and the like. Honestly, it's monotonous.

On rainy days I walk near the rivers, deep in the caverns. There are lamps here, and the water is fast but calm. I sit on it's edge, watching the flow. It's tranquil, one of my few favorite places in the palace.

It's not terrible. Simply, not my preferred lifestyle. But, the war cannot last forever. I will be out of here – sometime.

**-XXX-**

His father's council has grown tense as of late. The pressures of war weigh heavily upon them. Their usual bickering has been waylaid by real arguments of heat and fire. Lives are at stake.

All the while, Oropher sits at the head of the table, silent, pondering, stroking his chin as he listened to both sides. Thranduil alternately admired and despaired of his father's calm demeanor. He should not know how to hold his tongue when surrounded by such fools.

Oropher, despite all of his outward calm, is ill-at-ease. This shall be the biggest skirmish he's ever lead an army into, and he fears Sauron's reach. The union of Men and Elves is impressive indeed, but it is untested. Oropher hesitates to send so many of his young elves to what shall likely be a long and arduous siege. It is why he rides into battle himself, rather than simply sending a group of commanders.

The days leading up to war grow long. Thranduil feels as though he has simply left to wait before they ride out. He should not say that he longs for battle – he does dread it – but it remains always looming over his mind. Too often he seeks quiet with the hopes of clearing his head.

On one occasion he finds Caladhiel in his meditation spot. He'd forgotten that she was to grace their halls. He pauses, remaining in the shadows to observe the maiden. She does nothing remarkable, simply sits. It seems as though she, too, is looking for some solace in solitude.

Feeling generous enough to grant it to her, he slips back up the stairway. Another day, he might speak to her.

**-XXX-**

He finds me at the river-side one day. Again, caught off-guard, I am ill-dressed for a meeting with a king. My deep pumpkin tunic and fawn-colored breeches are a tad worn. It was not a day I was expecting to see anyone.

"I did not expect to see you, my lord, down here."

"Too dirty for my royal tastes?" he asks, a smiling tugging at his lips. He sits beside me, stretching out his legs. He wears polished black boots and grey trousers, a finely made green waistcoat over a white tunic. Relaxed, for him. "It might come as a surprise to you, but dirt is nearly everywhere, and I am quite accustom to it."

I laugh. "My apologies, my lord."

He frowns abruptly. "I should prefer that we ignore titles when we are as this."

I fold my hands in my lap. "If you find it appropriate."

"I do," he says. His long hair gleams in the dim cavern's light. Bright eyes turn upon me. I must marvel at their clear, crystalline quality, though they make me feel stripped down to the bone. "Indeed. I do. Cala…."

I blink up at him. "I find that we are reaching intimate terms, Prince Thranduil."

"Forgive me," he sighs. "I do wish to better know you, Caladhiel."

"Why ever should you wish to do that?"

"You're not much like the others I've known."

"Others?"

"_Dess," _he explains patiently.

I draw my knees up to my chest, tilting my head. "Is that what you say to all the ladies?" I accuse playfully. "I don't know if I ought to be offended or pleased by that."

"Pleased, surely." He smiles at me. "You're unusual, aren't you?

"I'm not, really. I am just a superficial and vain as any other young woman you should know, I assure you. Why should you wish to know me?"

"Is there any reason I should not?"

I can think of none, so I change the subject. "Why are you here, my lord?"

For this I receive a reproaching look. He apparently takes this "no-titles" agreement seriously. "You are not the only one within these walls who seeks solitude."

"And yet, I do not find it."

He laughs shortly. "I know you should think me foolish. There are many rooms here, many chambers that I may command. But the water gives me great peace."

With that, he turns his gaze to the water.

Quietly, I inquire, "Why should you be in need of peace?"

A heavy sigh. The prince closes his eyes, allowing me to get a good look at him. His eyes are sunken, slightly, lined with stress. The fully lips are pursed, too-tight. There is an undeniable air of strain about him.

"The war," he says finally.

"Ah."

I am quiet for a time. Finally, I say, "Beriana has said Ulain speaks of increased training. The smiths and armory are working double-time. It must be fast coming. Ulain –"

Thranduil peers at me. "He is going to be deployed, in one of our best battalions."

I stop abruptly. "They're going out? So soon? It has been settled?"

The prince casts an eye around for invasive ears. Finding none, he lowers his voice, leaning in. "War is coming, Caladhiel. My father is sending three battalions out to Dagorlad at the start of autumn to join with the other armies of men and elves."

"And Ulain shall be with them?" Stricken, I gaze up at him. "I must tell Beriana."

"Do," he says. "But do not cause much fuss about it."

A thought suddenly, horribly occurs to me. "Thranduil. You are not going out with them, are you?"

He appears sobered. The lines grow deeper. "Yes. I am. I ride out with my father in a month's time."

"Thranduil," I breathe. "But surely – would not your father hold you back? Should you not stay?"

"I should be with my soldiers," he replies sharply, opening his eyes, pensiveness evaporating. "I should be with the men laying down their lives for Arda. Protecting my people."

"I do not protest," I say soothingly. "I merely fear for you, my lord."

He notes the change in my voice. "I frighten you." It is not a question. A hand extends. I take it up.

"I would not wish to see anyone I care for going to battle, Thranduil. Least of all you or Ulain."

Lips twitching, Thranduil looks at me. A strand of my hair finds its way between the fingers of his free hand. "I have no doubt that you do. Will you champion me, Caladhiel Honeywell?"

"Always, my prince."

**-XXX-**

Just as Thranduil had promised, the battalions ride out in a matter of weeks. I am privy to Beriana and Ulain's tearful goodbye, among others, as I accompany her on the dawn that they ride out. From across the way, I see Thranduil in full battle regalia – mail, interlocking plates of shining metal embossed with scrolling patterns, his hair tied back and held by circlet, a smaller version of the one his father bears, set with grey stone. He strikes an imposing figure. He meets my eyes briefly, nodding.

We watch them ride out. I hold Beriana as she cries when Ulain passes. Her heartbreak touches me deeply. I lead her back home, supporting her shaking figure all the way, helping her sink into bed. We lay together, I stroke her hair and murmur useless comforts. She wears herself out, weeping, eventually falling asleep near noon.

It is that day I decide to take up healing and follow my people to Dagorlad. The next morning I turn up in the infirmary, ready to take whatever work is given to me.

**-XXX-**

** Hopefully this will give you a better idea of the timeline. We're entering into a time of war, so things are about to get tense. **

**Less of Thranduil's POV in these last few chapters, but he'll have a bigger voice soon enough.**

** Thank you so much for your support. Reviews and follows are so greatly appreciated! I try to answer every review, so don't hesitate with any questions or critiques! **


	4. Chapter 4

**Many thanks for the lovely response! I'm glad to have such support. I hope you enjoy this chapter! It introduces a character that carries over to a second LOTR piece I've been working on – he was actually invented in that earlier piece, but with the release of the Hobbit films, I thought this plot was more relevant. **

**-XXX-**

After leaving Beriana's house, I return to the palace, heading for the infirmary. From what I've heard, most of the healers have stayed behind for the moment to finish preparing, intent on following in a few days. They're looking for hands, able bodies to aid in tending to the injured. I was just such one of those bodies.

The head healer is a gruff fellow. The famed Fortesbrawn has been the head of the royal infirmary and at the service of the kings of Greenwood for longer than nearly anyone can remember. He sizes me up when I enter, heavily brow'ed eyes scanning me from top to bottom. I humbly wait.

"Have you any experience?" he asks.

"A little. I've lived on the edge of the forest my entire life. My mother was a bit of healer, and so everyone near us came to her for help. I picked up a few things. I can sew stitches and I know of many medicinal herbs."

He nods slowly. "You're the beekeeper, aren't you? Elurín's daughter."

"Yes." I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing.

The elf regards me for a long minute. Nervously, I fold my hands in my lap, trying to appear as useful as possible. After a while, he asks, "Can you learn quickly on your feet?"

I nod eagerly. "Yes. I'm a fast learner."

"Very well. We'll take you on. But if we find you to be incompetent, I warn you, we shan't be sending you home," he says firmly. "No, you'll be sent to the cook's tent or the pen with the horses."

"Yes sir."

I am instructed to remain in the infirmary for the day to help with packing. After we've finished for the evening, I race to the Birchbark's. They're startled to see me, but welcome me to their dinner table. Beriana's eyes are red-rimmed, and she reaches out to hug me close. Over our dinner of rabbit stew and parsnips, I'm hard-pressed to contain my news, waiting for the right moment. When I tell them the news, the table falls silent.

"Cala," Arhiel says breathlessly. "Oh, Cala, you _didn't."_

"I can't simply stay here. I'm useless in the palace." I'm trying to help them understand. "I'd rather be serving Arda and the Greenwood than staying here while so many of our fellows are sent off to die. Maybe I can make a difference."

Dorith shakes his head. "You don't belong on the battlefield. War is not for a _sell _such as yourself."

But I do have some support. Beriana leans over to hug me again. "I'm proud of you," she says. "I've always thought you had healing hands. Please be careful."

I hug her back. "I swear, I will be as safe as possible. I didn't really have anyone else to tell," I tell the table quietly. "So, I was hoping, if something happens –"

"Oh, Cala, no," Arhiel stops me, horrified. "Don't talk like that."

"Please, just, if I don't return, take care of everything. The cottage, the bees. Pass it along."

The rest of dinner is a little less grim, but I can tell that my announcement hangs over everyone's head. I attempt to act as though nothing has changed. But everything has.

**-XXX-**

Signing up to be a healer, I didn't quite know what to expect – which proves to a positive thing, as had I known, I would have likely shied away from volunteering. It's not necessarily a rough job, so much as it is unpredictable. I spend the first day packing and labeling things, and once we get to camp, unpacking, organizing, setting up the medical tent and cleaning it as best I can, and bandaging the few elves who were injured on the journey to Dagorlad's campus. Several have suspicious brawl-like bruises and cuts; we find out later that Oropher took more than a few barrels of wine along to the battlefield.

"Hardly required in war, " Fortesbrawn grumbles as he sutures one fellow over his eyebrow. "It's a more effective weapon against ourselves."

On my second day in camp I find myself brewing pain relievers, sedatives, and sleeping drafts. Fortesbrawn leaves me with a small book of recipes – his "travel size" version – and the supply tent. By the end of the day I have more unknown substances splattered across my apron than I'd care to acknowledge. And that is, naturally, when I see Thranduil.

I happen to come across him in the midst of sharpening his sword. It is by some chance that I spot him cut his palm. Wordlessly, I cross the row to tents to kneel before him, casting the weapon from his hand, pulling up my apron to apply pressure. Surprised, the prince pulls back before he recognizes me.

"Caladhiel?"

I glance up briefly. "Hold still," I say, adding in a softer tone, "Please, my lord." The cut isn't too bad – fairly shallow and clean, which means it won't take much to heal.

"What are you doing here?" Thranduil is still stunned. The hand not being tended to grips my shoulder. He doesn't appear much different than he did last week, when I had watched him ride from Greenwood. A little haggard, perhaps. There are a few thin, shatter-like lines around his eyes. He wears a few pieces of armor, but not the full set. I don't blame him – it's quite warm today.

"I volunteered to work as a healer," I explain. "Come, you'll need a bandage."

"You're working with Fortesbrawn? The old badger didn't scare you off?" He rises with me, eyes never leaving mine.

"Hardly. We get on quite well."

"He's a bit strict, is he not?" The prince smiles. "I do like him."

We round a corner and the medical supply tent is ahead. I lead the way, tossing up the flap. Thranduil follows, sitting when I direct him to a crate. After scouring boxes and shelves I find what I am searching for. When I return with a roll of clean fabric and a bottle of witch hazel, I find him poking at the cut.

"Stop," I scold, pulling the offending finger away. Without warning, I lay his palm flat, pouring a bit of witch hazel upon the wound. Thranduil hisses under his breath. I ignore him, cleaning up the excess liquid and dried blood, then begin wrapping it tightly. Once finished, Thranduil claims the limb back against his chest,.

"Thank you," he says softly.

"It is no trouble. It is my job."

"You're clearly suited for it." The prince hesitates before adding, "I must be honest, I'm not entirely _pleased_ to see you here. Greenwood is far safer, Cala."

"I wanted to serve my people," I reply stubbornly. "My people and Arda.."

He nods eagerly. "I respect that. But as someone who cares for you, I'd prefer you were leagues away, you know?"

"And I you. I would altogether wish that there was no war to be fought." I sigh. "Be careful, Prince Thranduil. And if you fail to be careful, I shall be here ready to stitch you up. Though I have no desire to do so." Smiling, I lace the fingers of his good hand with mine.

He finds the energy to smile back. "I will do my best to avoid you, then."

"See to it."

Suddenly, he leans forward. Being much taller than me, the prince's chin meets my forehead, and he lowers his mouth to press a soft kiss upon my brow, hands upon my forearms, locking me in place. Then, without another word, Thranduil strokes the length of my left cheek, then departs, leaving me alone in the supply tent.

**-XXX-**

"Bring water," Fortesbrawn barks over the heads of scurrying healers. "Bandages, and as much willow as can be found."

A pallet is moving towards the center tent, carried by several grim and bloody soldiers. All move aside with gasps and wide eyes. I shove through with my bowl and bandages, hurrying to the head healer's side. Once there, I too take pause, uttering back a low cry; it is the king who is being set upon the table. The king, whose armor has been slashed open, blood leaking from his half-open mouth, dirt layering every exposed inch of skin. A heavy scent of burnt flesh

Once he has been steadily placed, Fortesbrawn sets to work. First the breastplate is removed, revealing twisted and broken mail, then beneath that a shirt that may have once been white, but is now soaked with sticky red-black blood. The healer makes a quick motion for a wet cloth. Once the chest is cleaned the injury is visible – a long, brutal slash. Beyond the scarlet I can see raw muscle and bone. It rises and falls heavily, a slight wheeze. The lungs are likely filling with blood. I gasp. Fortesbrawn's expression is grim.

"I need red clover and anise," he orders. "Cala, bring me needle and silk. We'll need sutures I manage to stop this bleeding."

I nod, still in shock, and flee for the supply tent. Blindly I push through the crowd of frantic elves – though the fighting is miles away, chaos still rules the camp. I open one of the trunks, selecting a small package of curved needs and a spool of thin yellow silk thread, then hurry back to Fortesbrawn. Breathless, I set the materials upon one of the tables, then dive into the fray.

But there is so much blood – too much blood. I step away even as Fortesbrawn remains, determined. He's murmuring low words over our king, pressing white sage and anise into the wound, calling for the blood to cease. It slows, but does not stop.

For hours we labor over the king. In the end he is fairly stable – though no more than a fly on a string.

"We shall just have to see," Fortesbrawn sighs, washing his bloodied hands in a small bowl in the medicinal tent. "If he makes it through the afternoon, then we will have made half the battle. It will be fever and infection, then."

Quietly, I murmur, "What are his chances?"

The healer's eyes are dark. "I do not know. But they do not strike me as good."

I feel the heart of all those in the tent turn. Oropher is greatly beloved. No one would ever imagine that he would fall in battle. Everyone is silent, too stunned.

Fortesbrawn wearily sinks at the table, head propped upon his hands. I fetch a cup of water, pushing it towards him, then I motion for one of the young squires to bring food. When it arrives – course bread and a bean soup – I gently touch the healer, rousing him from his doze. With a sober smile, he nods, and eats.

"Go rest, Cala," he says as he stirs the soup. "There is little more we can do for the moment. You need rest."

I obey, reluctantly retiring to my tent. It's still loud outside. My fellows have not yet returned from their tasks. So I turn in, closing my eyes. In a few seconds, I am completely out.

**-XXX-**

It is only a few hours later that Thranduil is brought to us.

This time there is no mutual shout about camp. Fortesbrawn himself comes to my tent, eyes wide.

"The prince," is all that he can manage as he pulls me up from my cot. Dread rises in my stomach. Both Oropher and Thranduil in one day?

A cluster of guardsmen meets us at the medic's tent. They are clearly fresh from the fight – many bear a collection of scratches, bruises, light limps, among other maladies. Blood and sweat stains what is visible of their tunics, their armor is caked with mud.

He has been burned, badly, and writhes in agony on the pallet when brought to us. I nearly do not recognize him – the entire left side is burnt, leaving blackened flesh, twisted, red, angry muscles, pink tendons, and the occasional sliver of white bone. His eye is obliterated, virtually gone. All of the hair on the left side of his face is gone as well, leaving a shiny pink scalp. The upper thighs are not nearly so bad, and the chest isn't awful either – his armor served him well there. But he was stupid enough as to not wear a helmet, which leaves us with much to do.

Drawn, Fortesbrawn sets to work. Thranduil's injures are far more extensive then his father's, and in some senses, trickier. Dragon fire is not something many healers have experience with. Fortesbrawn, even in his two thousand years, has only seen it once.

First he sets about drugging the prince. The third degree burns are beyond pain now, as the nerves have been burnt away, however, the second degree burns likely hurt beyond belief. He gives Thranduil a heavy infusion of poppy, praying it keeps him from feeling what shall come next. Then, there is the task of removing the clothing – this is difficult, as what has not been burned away is melded to the skin. With the greatest of care, myself and several aids work on peeling away what remains of his tunic. The layers that come with the fabric sicken me greatly. Blood flows freely. One person is tasked with applying light pressure to these areas. I am not envious of their job.

After this, the healer turns to the eye. I cannot bear to look at what remains of Thranduil's steely blue gaze. I aid Fortesbrawn in whatever way I can, but I do not look. It takes nearly an hour, but the orb is soon whole again, though it is now misty.

"His sight will return," the healer tells us aids. "But it may be some years before it's anywhere near the strength of a normal eye."

After that it is simply a matter of making the prince comfortable. Salve is applied to the less-burnt areas. As it sinks it, the redness seems to fade, slipping away from the white flesh a though a stain cleaned from pure snowy sheets. Fortesbrawn lays damp towels on those areas that are more burnt. No amount of herbs and spells will fix this –at least, not so quickly. He administers an infusion for pain relief.

"If he lives through the night…" Fortesbrawn sighs. He sits beside the sedated prince. Exhausted, his fingers trace the rim of the cup of water I'd just fetched him "...we'll start looking at ways of healing the worst of it."

"Why not do it now?" I ask, sinking to the floor. My bones ache from standing for so long. The solid floor lends little relief.

"Because there are others dying. And if our prince cannot last the night, then that what might have saved ten lives wills be wasted on one."

I gasp. "He's our prince. Fortesbrawn, if there is a chance – "

"If there is a chance we will know by morning," the healer says strictly. "I have been given orders by both the prince and king to let the go if it is a lost cause. They wanted me to save our resources for those who need them."

"He needs them –" I gesture to the prince.

"Dragon fire is incredibly difficult to heal," Fortesbrawn says. Calmly, he sets down his cup. "If Thranduil can make it through the next couple hours, he's made half the battle."

I look at him, then. Lying on the tabling, chest slowly rising with his labored breathes. He looks peaceful, despite the immense about of pain he's likely feeling. From here I can only see the uninjured side, his smooth, clean features. As though nothing has changed.

"I'll stay with him," I say quietly. "I'll stay with Thranduil. Go to bed, Fortesbrawn."

**-XXX-**

It's five hours before Thranduil stirs. I've dozed off in the hard little chair beside him when a rasp wakes me.

_"Cala."_

It's a harsh sound, coming from dry lips. I hurry to fetch him a cup of water, then help him adjust to sit up to drink. Once he is done again, we ease him back down. I take his good hand, then brush his unscarred brow gently, murmuring soft words as I caress. _"__Nín_ _ernil…." _

His eyes are half-lidded, contented. He likely feels no pain now – a result of the drugs. Again, he tries to speak, swallowing several times before managing to whisper clearly.

"Cala.

"Are you in pain?"

"No, none," he answers in a dry whisper. "You and Fortesbrawn have done good work."

My hand tightens against his. I don't believe him, and make a note of giving him another dose of poppy. "I do not know that to be so, Thranduil…. Dragon fire – it is hard to heal."

"I trust you both." The sincerity in his words stabs me.

_Trust us you may, but that does not mean you can be healed. _My heart weeps. I fumble for my pocket mirror, a small piece of polished silver gifted to me by Beriana before I left. The back is enamel, a monarch butterfly set against a green and yellow background. She said I wouldn't see much color aside from blood. My fingers shake as I withdraw it, even those that rest against the prince's cheek.

"We did our best. And there is still more we can do. But…we cannot mend what has been so heavily touched by magic. I do not know if you shall wish to see it. Later, when you have had rest…"

"Show me," he orders me, princely tone in place. He shifts to sit. I put a hand on his shoulder quickly, steadying him. I hesitate before turning over the mirror. There is a sharp intake of breath.

I bite my lip. The way his eyes flicker across the glass…his expression is one of pure and utter horror. Taking up the mirror from me, Thranduil stares.

"I am a monster," he whispers.

"No," I choke, grabbing his good hand again, pushing aside the mirror so that it drops to the table with a soft _"thud."_ His eyes are still wide, terrified. Frighten of his own face. I ache to stop this, to give him heart and good feeling. "No, no. You are not. You are never."

"Look at me," he says, bitterness swelling, his volume rising. "Or rather not. I am the stuff of _nightmares_. I am a cripple, blind –"

"You are not. You are a hero." I move to sit on the edge of the table. "Thranduil, it is not so bad. In time, you shall be able to use your arm again. Fortesbrawn has given you sight again, you shall see in time, and your can still speak."

"But shall the burns ever heal?" he hisses. "Am I ever again to feel?" His good hand squeezes mine so tightly I fear bones shall break. Despite the potency of the drugs, his weariness, and generally weakened state, the prince still has great strength. "Will I ever enjoy the feeling of breeze, sunlight? Another's skin against my own?"

I wince as his grip again tightens. Realizing what he's doing, Thranduil releases me.

"Leave me." He looks away.

"I shall not."

"I am a monster. A thing. A half-person. I do not deserve your attention, nor your care. Go to others more deserving. I am ready to die."

His words anger me. "You are my prince and I shall stay. Do not be so petty – there are many here on death's door who would easily insist that I return to you. You have a loyal people, my lord, who will miss you and who will follow you, scars nor not, beyond the edge of the earth. Do not disregard their love for your silly dramatics. You are alive and will remain so if I and they have anything to say about it."

At this, he is silenced. After a period of quiet, Thranduil opens his good hand. I slip mine back into his. We both squeeze, holding on as though utterly terrified to let go.

**-XXX-**

**Well, that drifted quickly from fluffy to dramatic! Some of you had been asking after the dragon and Thranduil's disfigurement. I hope I delivered! **

**The movie doesn't establish when he encountered the dragon(s), and it's not canon within the book, so this is entirely a fabrication of my mind.**

**Reviews would be lovely! **


	5. Chapter 5

**Longer chapter, get excited! **

**-XXX-**

I am once again contentedly settled in my cottage. My bees greet me the moment I step past the gate. Before I reach the door I am completely covered with tiny, fuzzy bee bodies. It's their version of a hug, I think. A ticklish sort of sensation, I giggle slightly, holding my hands to allow them to scurry across my fingers. It is nearly ten minutes before I can reach for my key.

Inside, it feels so empty. The furniture is covered in sheets, curtains drawn, everything is musty, with a light layer of dust covering every surface. Already weary, I pull a sheet off one chair to sit down. There are many things to do before this is a home again. The gardens are surely in great disarray – over a year without weeding or watering. I cannot even imagine the fruit trees.

My goats were sold to farmers around Esgaroth, so I must seek to buy new ones as soon as my home is straightened up a bit. The bees were, thankfully, self-sustaining. I visit their hives to find them overflowing with honey – the people I left with permission to gather has told me they've been collecting, yet they have clearly not been taking enough. Again the bees swamp me, happily it seems, greeting me with cheerful humming.

Between the sunshine, the bees, and the gentle swaying of my overgrown garden in the breeze…I feel thoroughly welcomed.

I dedicate two hour to cleaning, then make a pallet for myself – my mattress is currently airing out – and curl up beside the fire. I do not sleep, however, despite my weariness; I am too pleased, too energized simply by being _home._

Thranduil's coronation is in a fortnight. As everyone else in the Greenwood, I am invited. It is a respectful five days after Oropher's funeral, which I fully anticipate attending as well. One dress of black mourning, then another of brightness and joy, an accessory to the dawn of a new age in Greenwood. I assume that black armbands will be appropriate, and I mentally remind myself to make one before the week is out.

I liked Oropher. He was a good man, a good king. I am saddened by his loss, more so now that I have a sympathy for our prince. A small part of me wonders what changes shall be upon us – Thranduil is very different from his father. He is not so interested in foreign affairs. Distance is what our new monarch will seek from his reign – he does not want to interact with those outside of our forest outside of trade. This will surely make for a change – though, not an unwelcome one, with the war still surging on beyond the Greenwood.

Beriana and Arhiel come to visit after three days. I am thankful for the time they give me to settle. They come bearing cheese, candles (I'm especially thankful for these, as I'm at my last half candle, though they are not as nice as my own bee's wax), bread, a few jams, and jarred vegetables. I am quickly swept into tight, unyielding hugs as the two women sweep inside.

"Cala," Beriana all but sobs in my arms. "Oh, it has been so long! Are you alright? My letters –"

"All made it," I assure her. "I just lost time to write. I'm sorry."

"No, no…." Fat tears reflect in her eyes. "Don't apologize."

Arhiel pulls her daughter back. "Beriana, give her air," she clucks. "But answer the question, Caladhiel, how are you?"

"Fine, I promise! A little weary, but not hurt. That's the thing about healers – we tend to spend more time taking care of the injured than getting injured ourselves."

Once both are certain of my health, they set about fussing about the cottage. Arhiel puts the candles and other foods away then makes tea, while Beriana helps me scrub the table and put on a fresh tablecloth. While we work, I am told all the goings-on of the Greenwood, all that I had missed in my year's absence. There is not much of interest – babies were born (though not as many a before), scandals made, businesses lost and sold, and betrothals made (again, far fewer than before).

Beriana chatters throughout tea, going twenty leagues a minute as she describes the of returned war heroes, the babies born recently, and all the gossip of the village, along with the wedding of two mutual friends.. Beside me, Arhiel sighs. She takes up my hand, giving it a squeeze.

"I do believe my Beriana is rather envious," she tells me conspiratorially when Beriana rises to fill the kettle a second time. From the pantry, my friend spins to face us with a squeak, hands on hips, incredulous. She's holding a plate of honey cakes – made fresh yesterday.

"And what would I be envious of, Mother?" she asks icily.

Arhiel smiles. "That you're not set in betrothal, my dear."

I look to my friend. "Oh?"

She pouts, setting the platter on the table with a _thud. _"Ulain." It's a hearty sigh, one filled with much emotion.

"Oh…" I shake my head. "He's been at war, Beriana! Do you think he has time to court you?"

"Of course not!" she protests. "Nevertheless, he has asked for my hand!"

"What?"

Arhiel beams, though Beriana appears rather miserable. She pushes away her mug, tearing off bits of honey cake.

"This is wonderful, Beriana, it's what you've been waiting for over a year now! Whatever is wrong?"

"Everything!" she bursts out. "It's to…the timing is terrible. The war, and it's summer and…." She breaks off in a sob. Arhiel rises to stand behind her, patting her shoulder.

"What if he dies?" Beriana whispers. "While he's out there? I couldn't – I couldn't –"

"He will be fine," I sooth, reaching across the table to take up her hands. It's a lie. An utter lie. "You mustn't fret, Beriana. Ulain loves you too much to let himself get killed. You must keep heart, you goose."

"He shall be back within the month, my dear," Arhiel assures her quietly. "The siege began only a month ago. They shall surely fall Mordor before the year is out. Thranduil has already recalled most of our forces home – the only reason he keeps back those battalions is because those troops are experienced, fierce. He will return soon enough, my love, whole and hale. Just as our Caladhiel."

Beriana looks to me. "Tell me. Is it so terrible?"

I hesitate before saying. "Tis war, Beriana. It is great and terrible. But I have no doubt that Ulain should return."

My honesty is appreciated, though Arhiel gives me a rather foreboding expression. I ignore her, squeezing my friends again.

**-XXX-**

Oropher's memorial is a solemn affair. The entire forest turns out, and even some Men of Esgaroth. All are in dark colors. We are a sea of black, grey, and blue in the dusky twilight. It seems as though the Greenwood mourns with us. Mist pours out from between the trees, seeping into all available spaces. Every few feet along with aisle, someone holds a lantern on a tall pole, casting a brief circle of white light.

The procession moves sluggishly. First banners, then flutes, then a small choir singing mourning ballads, with our king in the middle. He rests atop a finely carved pallet – a darkly stained oak, with depictions of great achievements of his life. Six guardsmen in full service attire carry the pallet upon their shoulders. Shrouded in clean white linen, his arms crossed upon his chest, he appears at peace. Yet, I cannot help but remember him drenched with blood, chest slashed, Fortesbrawn ordering supplies across the surgical table. I tug on the hood of my grey cloak. The others around me are already weeping to, but this feels like a private kind of sorrow.

Thranduil follows his father in the procession. He wears a black robe, streaked with silver threads, a subdued silver circlet inset with diamonds on his brow – in a mere five days he shall bear the crown of his father, a might twist of white gold, made to resemble the branches of an icy tree. I forget that Thranduil is king now. He suits the role well. His face is entirely impassive. Staring straight ahead, our prince's eyes are blank. No emotion flickers across them. He turns, every so often, to look at those that line his walk, bowing his head in return to those that lower theirs.

Behind him walk a few cousins, an aunt and uncle. Their eyes are downcast. The women wear veils, the men walk with a stiffness that can only be associated with a familial loss.

The procession will go on for a few more miles, sinking into the depths of the palace, into the earth's belly where those unfortunate enough to end their days in Arda rather that the Undying Lands go to rest for eternity – though, not the eternity they'd been born for. Oropher will rest on a hard bed of marble, with only the dead for company.

This reminds me of my choice. My ultimate decision. Being half-elven, I have the option of choosing a mortal life, or that of a normal elf – eternity. I have not made any choice as of now. I am waiting, I suppose. Should I choose mortal existence I, too, may some day rest in the bellows of our palace, beside Oropher and the others who were gone too soon.

The king is soon gone from view. I bow my head. Beside me, elves sniff, sob, and openly weep. Together, we share in the pain of loss. Our monarch is gone.

**-XXX-**

Ulain does return. By winter he is home again, he and our last battalion. Beriana and I are among the crowd that gathers at the palace gates to meet them. Our second procession in just five months, this one is far happier. Everyone has high energy – our troops are coming home! There is much joy and laughter as we push through the buzzing bodies of elves. We're on the green – a place where, years ago now, Ulain and Beriana first met. The green has seen happier occasions, but today shall not be so bad.

A dais is set up at the head of green, on which sits Thranduil, his commanders, and a few select advisors. Cool as ever, our new king wears a scarlet cloak and his finest golden crown, a tall affair made of up twisting vines, set with emeralds and twinkling diamonds. It resembles the barren vines that cover the pillars outlining the palace doors. He is a fine sight indeed, giving awe to all who look upon him. With a clear brow and bright eyes, he is attentive, excited, even, though still maintains an air of utter coolness. When Beriana and I cross his eyeline in making our way to the inner layer of welcomers that circles the green, we both take pause when he hails us.

"My lord," we murmur together, curtsying. In the babble around us, his next words come as faint.

"It has been a long time since I have had the delight of seeing you, Caladhiel," he says.

I half-rise. "Nor I you, sire. How do you fare?" I try not to focus on the scarred side of his face, the mask which only I and a few others can see behind – even then, it is by memory only. His glamor is well-imagined. There is truly no difference.

Still, he senses my question, seeing where my eyes focus, lips upturning slightly as both my use of a title and my unspoken question. "I am well, thank you." He pauses. "I have not seen you since the summer. We are in winter now."

"Indeed my lord," I answer. "I fear I have not been about the Greenwood much, as there is a good deal to tend about my parcel, so I have kept to myself."

His eyes, very clear, have a flicker of kindness about them. "See that you do come, occasionally. We would not want you to disregard society, Cala, for the company of bees. Though I have no doubt that they serve as well as most people."

Beside me, Beriana titters – she is in high spirits. I nudge her. A smile tugs at Thranduils lips.

"I shall keep your council, my lord. I endeavor to be about the wood more."

"Good."

With that, we are dismissed. Moving into the crowd, we are left to wait. Beside me, Beriana bounces on the ball of her feet, barely able to contain her excitement. She is so distracted she does not even tease me about Thranduil's attentions I can practically hear her internal chanting – _"Ulain, Ulain, Ulain, Ulain…."_

They've been corresponding for months. Letters arrive every few weeks. Beriana keeps every one, tucked beneath her pillow. At night, I think she pulls out everyone, inhaling the scent, tracing the familiar script, reading his words over and over and over.

I have never loved like that. It's all-consuming. Terrifying. And yet, admirable. Beriana has found her other half.

There is a commotion – drums and flutes, cheering closer to the gates. They're coming. As the group nears, the cheering grows louder. Beriana is practically fluttering now, standing on tip-toes, neck straining as she try desperately to see her love.

And finally, they come. In full armor, the battalion marches forward. They stop in the center green. A few words are said by commanders, then Thranduil on the nobility of service, honor, etc. Then, finally, finally, they are released.

Having already picked him out from the near-identical rows upon rows of men, Beriana launches herself on Ulain. The elf stumbles, my friend's small form making for quite the surprise. He catches her, and, removing his helmet, lifts her to his level for a long, deep kiss. It's so long, I feel embarrassed and force myself to look away.

He's not changed much. His hair is longer, face thinner, and there is a star-shaped scar on his chin, but overall Ulain is quite well. Beriana's family welcomes him into their home, inviting his parents and sisters along. I hover about the edges, feeling out-of-place and nervous, though infinitely pleased to see my friends so very happy. At the head of the table, Beriana and Ulain share a bench, leaning into one another, every so often sighing happily as they gaze into one another's eyes.

**-XXX-**

Another four years of betrothal, and, and in the first year of the third age, just a few months after the end of the war, Beriana and Ulain marry. It is a beautiful ceremony, taken at starlight on a clear summer's evening. There are a great many people, as Ulain and Beriana are quite popular among the village and palace service.

An hour before the ceremony we sit in Beriana's bedroom in her parent's house. At her vanity, my friend nervously combs her hair, running trembling fingers through the curtain of chestnut, cheeks flushed. I kneel on the floor beside her, holding her free hand in her lap, assuring her of the rightness of the hour. Together, we take many deep breaths. Finally, she is ready.

My friend looks resplendent in a cream-colored gown that drapes gracefully against her curves, carrying a bouquet of buttercups, with more twisted in the ivy crown set in her flowing chestnut locks. I carry her train, moving at a shuffling pace as she walks towards her beloved, shaking all the while. I nearly lose my right slipper twice, though I eventually leave it on the third time. One of the lantern bearers picks it up when they pass.

The feast afterwards is spectacular. There is much dancing and laughter. Wine flows freely. By dawn, I am exhausted, ready to pass out beneath the nearest tree. We all gather to see them passing into their new home, Ulain carrying a near-sleeping Beriana over their threshold. Arhiel and Dorith tearfully wave them on.

Before I set off for home, Arhiel sweeps me up into her arm, still crying.

"Now that our Beriana is wed, should we be holding out for a betrothed for you, Caladhiel?" Dorith asks as he pats his wife's trembling shoulders.

"I think not, uncle," I reply with a smile. "I am not yet too keen to leave my bees."

"You've always kept such a steady head and steady heart," he says. "Keep that about you, but know it is okay to be a little less steady with your heart – wariness keeps the hearts of others away. And you cannot stay in your parcel with your bees for all of your days."

Over Arhiel's back, I reach for his hand. "Thank you, uncle. But I do not think there are many who would care to give themselves to a half-elven."

His lips purse. "You would be surprised, my girl. Some times I think my daughter is right – much of your doubt comes from your own head. You can only stay down if you let them keep you down. But, I suppose we have been telling you that neigh five centuries." He gently pulls his wife back to him. "Come, Arhiel. We are both weary. We shall sleep all day, eh? Come along, my love."

She cups my face. "Oh Cala," she sighs. "Thank you for all that you have done to help our girl. I cannot say –"

"It is no trouble, Arhiel. I am glad to see her happy."

"I hope that we might soon see you equally happy," she whispers. "Oh, sweet Cala…."

"Go to be, Arhiel." I kiss her brow. "I will see you soon."

**-XXX-**

A mere year later, my Beriana gives birth to a handsome baby boy. Kalock has dark hair and green eyes, and promises to be as tall as his father. I am the birth, holding Beriana's hand with her mother doing the same across me. The midwife sooths from where she stands at the foot of the bed. Twelve hours and he is fully a part of our world.

"What do you think of your nephew, Cala?" Beriana murmurs from the bed as Arhiel pats her brow with a damp cloth. I stand at the window, hold the small mewling babe.

I peer at him, with his red little face, scrunched up in distaste even in his sleep. He, like his mother, is positively exhausted – Kalock was not too eager to join us. It was a difficult labor.

"He is beautiful, Beriana," I assure her. "A tough little mite. I have no doubt he'll be a fine, strong lad."

"But first a fussy babe," her mother reminds us. "How does he look in the light?"

"Positively beautiful. He's got a fine head of hair already. He looks like you, Beriana."

"Good," she sighs. "Then the next one shall resemble Ulain. A pretty girl with auburn hair."

We laugh at her prediction, then set child down beside his mother to sleep.

**-XXX-**

As an unofficial auntie, I am given rights to spontaneous kidnap my nephew from his parents, on occasion, and take him out for the day. This is not unwelcome by Beriana and Ulain – often, they use these days to catch up on sleep, or simply spend time together. It is on these outing between myself and Kalock that I find that I might perhaps like a child or two myself.

We're in one of the small, bright little clearings that surround the village. It's a warm summer day, and there are many flowers. I sit weaving crowns while Kal toddles about, babbling in his baby way, pulling up flowers and picking up insects. A few bees drift in – some are mine, others natives of the wood. They do not disturb us, even when they near the child. Kal watches them with great wonder, lifting chubby fingers to follow them.

"Do not touch," I warn him. "They shall sting you, my love."

He fusses when I pull him away, reaching still. I lower my nose to his head, breathing in his warm and clean baby scent. To distract him, I offer one of my clover crowns. He takes it, waving it wildly with a delighted screech. I laugh with him.

It is then that a small party rides through our clearing. At the sound of stags, moving through the trees, I pull Kalock to me again.

The king rides into the clearing with two guardsmen, sitting atop a regal stag. They pause when they see us, their mounts stopping a mere ten feet before us. I rise, holding the squirming Kalock to my chest. He makes a fussing noise, want to be placed back on the ground, but alas, I will not let him. Stout legs kick midair as he strains.

"Beekeeper," the king says. "It has been some time."

"It has, my lord. Pardon me if we intrude upon your path." I drop into the best curtsy I can manage with Kal in my arms. The last time I saw him was at a solstice about three years ago, but we have not spoken since the return of the last battalion – nearly ten years ago.

"Not at all," he assures me easily. The pair of guards eye me with some vague interest – I do not imagine that all _dess _Thranduil comes across warrant such familiar attentions. "I should apologize to you, for I fear we have interrupted you and you son. What is your boy's name, Caladhiel?"

"Oh, he is not mine, sire. This is Ulain's son."

"Ah. Little Elmbranch." Something flickers over Thranduil's gaze as he looks over the child. "You care for him often?"

"When his parents require a break. Which is often." I grin.

"You are generous."

"He is quite the handful," I agree. "But a good boy. Someone needs to spoil him – two sets of grandparents are simply not enough. What brings you this way, my lord?"

In their saddles, the two guards shift uncomfortably. I do not think they are used to anyone speaking to their king in such a flippant manner. Both Thranduil and I ignore them.

"Surveying the land to our east. I try to, on occasion, ride through the forest. I seek to better know my lands."

"A noble cause, my lord, though one would better know the forest on foot."

"You think so?" He smiles faintly. "I may perhaps take you up on that. You were offering to guide me, were you not?"

Surprised, I shift Kal to my hip. "I should be honored to, sire. Name the day, and I shall take you."

"I will send word when I require your services. In the mean time, I shall leave you to your charge." He nods to the boy. "What is your name, little one?"

"Cal! Cal-cal-cal!" the child chants, pulling at a few lock of my hair. I wince.

Thranduil looks at me, amused. "Named after his auntie?"

"It's actually Kalock," I say, embarrassed. "An old family name, I think, on the Elmbranch side. He cannot quite say it or my name yet, so it is difficult to discern if he speaks of himself or calls for me. Either way, I always come running."

The king laughs. For a moment, he resembles the prince that snuck out of festivals to see me – someone more carefree."Charming," he tells Kalock. "Though it shan't work forever. These women soon grow tired of coming when they are summoned. You would do better to learn poetry or tempt them with flowers." Looking back up at me, he says, "It is good to see you."

"And you, my lord." Then, quieter, "Thranduil."

The expression I am rewarded with is small, surprised, though not displeased. With that the king and his party rides on, leaving me and Kal alone in the clearing once more. I set the babe down, offering to make him another flower crown if he will but sit with me for a few minutes more.

"We shall go to the river, if you are good," I promise. "Then lunch at your gran's."

**-XXX-**

Once they pass through the clearing, Thranduil steers his stag back towards the palace. Erphalagos snorts, but follows his master's bidding. His guardsmen exchange a glance behind their king's back. One, Sarlith, asks "Are we not surveying the land, my lord? You told the _dess _that we would be going to the Eastern wood."

"I have achieved what I aimed for today, Sarlith," Thranduil replies without looking back. "Let us return home."

He pats Erphalagos's neck, urging him on. "We've done just what we'd planned."

**-XXX-**

**I pinky promise we shall get more Thranduil POV soon.**

**There were quite a few big time-jumps here. Don't hesitate to message me if you got a little lost. This may seem like a filler of random business, but there's some legit foreshadowing here, for realsies. **

**Thank you so much for your kind words and lovely feedback!**


	6. Chapter 6

**If you're a fan of Maureen Johnson's Shades of London series, check out my oneshot on Stephen and Rory! If you're not a fan, go read it! **

**In response to the guest who expressed that half-elven elves couldn't make the choice of mortality/immortality, I've never read or seen anything to indicate so. That could be a mistake on my part, certainly. But this is fan fiction, so a bit of tweaking isn't beyond the rules. Also, Caladhiel is distantly related to both Elrond and L****úthien, which would, I think, allow her the choice.**

**Another long chapter! **

**-XXX-**

Blood. It is as though the sanguine liquid taints his memories, stains them with their redness, seeping into his very dreams. Wet, sticky, like a rusty oil. The color of power turned to regret. It's his most vivid memory, the life-giving liquid seeping forth with all the force and gusto of a crystal-clear stream – fast, sharp, and unbearably cold.

He'd not been in many battles before. A few skirmish, yes, epics with spiders and wrags and all sorts of creatures. But a fight against those who look so like him? Thranduil had not experienced that before.

It was the fifth day. Beside his father, mounted on a silver stag, the prince had been nervous, yes, but eager to serve his people, to serve Arda, in this fight. Before they begin the charge, he rotated his arms, spinning his sword before holding it at the ready. _"Let them come." _

_Dagorlad. _Battle plain.

They were out matched at the start, but arrows soon downed the Men in front. Their lancers fallen, the commanders had little more than swords and axes on their side – this particular battalion was not well-equipped. Or so the Greenwood Elves thought.

He was not aware of his father's stag collapsing, nor did he know Oropher to be mortally wounded. It was not as though, in the disarray, anyone could have found him anyways. As the day wore on his face and hair became streaked with dirt and blood, both his own and his foes'. Around him, utter chaos ruled. He could not discern much – not the passing of the hours, nor his weariness, just the motion of his blade striking down enemies with a swift strike over and over.

Indeed, time seemed to pass at a great pace, until the dragon arrived.

A great black mass, first thought to be as storm cloud, passed overhead. It was not until a great roar echoed through the plains that those of the Last Alliance realized that a dragon was in their midst. Fear struck cold and hard throughout the Alliance.

Thranduil paused in his slaying to look to the sky. The creature, black scales flashing even in the dimmed light of the battlefield, seemed to grin at all below him. Twisting midair, it breathed a hot breath of fire upon the closest line of Men, destroying all life the flame touched.

The prince grit his teeth. Giving a call, he directed his archers to aim for the belly of the beast. He was not the only one. Every commander in range was issuing the same order. All at once, hundred of arrows flew for the creature. A few properly hit their mark, lodging between the softer belly scales. The beast screamed, diving with another mouthful of fire.

He flew in range of the prince, who, without thought, strung the bow that sat on his back. The dragon neared, head-on, fearless. In an instant the prince's arrow had been let loose. And it hit its mark – the left eye of the beast, directly in the middle of its catlike pupils.

The dragon screamed again, and opens it's jaws to release another burst of fire. He, too, makes his mark. The prince falls. Half of his body is on fire.

After a time, he cannot feel the burning. Even when several soldiers rush to his side, beating the flames with whatever cloth they have, he cannot feel it. Everything is dull, fading, his vision (or what is left of it) edged by blackness. His stag lies nearby, moaning lowly – he has been burned as well.

Thranduil can feel nothing of the ruined side of his body. Still, he withers and shivers on the pallet they place him on, uttering muted cries. He does not hurt, yet he knows there must be pain.

**-XXX-**

After darkness claims him, the prince is in and out of consciousness. He sees flashes of faces, all worried and peaked. A flicker of candle light. Fortesbrawn's face. The feeling of cool water upon his skin, murmuring, gentle words. Spells. Magic.

He wakes slowly, eye blinking blearily before he fully accepts consciousness. And when he does, he thinks that he is dreaming.

It is more than the heaviness he feels, the fatigue, all senses dulled by drugs. It is the sight of the one who sits beside him. _"Cala." _He wishes to speak it, but his throat will not let him. At the most, he can crook his fingers for her.

She sits by lamplight, golden hair pulled back into a loose bun at the base of her neck, pale and drawn and clearly worried. Even in a stained apron and worn dress, bags beneath tired eyes, she is the picture of loveliness to him. Though, her less-than-polished appearance assures him that this is not a dream, it is not a vision. She is here.

_"Cala."_ His lips move, but no sound save for a bare scratching comes out. He winces, and she with him. She fetches a cup of water, helping him sit up slightly to drink. Once he has drained the cup, she aids him in easing back down. He never turns from her. One hand goes to his, squeezing, another strokes his right brow.

_"__Nín_ _ernil," _she murmurs, fingers light on his skin. _"My prince."_

He tries again, and this time a whisper comes out. _"_Cala."

The elf maiden sighs at her name. Her hand tightens against his. "Are you in pain?"

"No, none," he answers in whisper. "You and Fortesbrawn have done good work."

But her face is grim. "I do not know that to be so," she says quietly. "Thranduil. Dragon fire – it is hard to heal."

"I trust you both."

Still she is bleak. Stroking his cheek, she reaches into the pocket of her apron. "We did our best. And there is still more we can do. But…we cannot mend what has been so heavily touched by magic." She opens her hand to reveal a small hand mirror. It's a pretty thing, polished silver set with enamel on the back. He stares at it. In the medical tent on a battlefield, it feels entirely out of place. "I do not know if you shall wish to see it."

"Show me," he commands, voice a little stronger.

Heavily, she lifts the mirror so that he might see. He instantly regrets his insistence.

Half of his face is…gone. From his eyebrow to his jaw, missing his nose and lips, was a nightmare. What had been golden-white skin was twisted, charred, blackened flesh, strings of red muscle and cuts of white bone. The burn extended down the entire left side of his torso, his shoulder, neck, arm, and hand. Sinew and angry red-and-black flesh was all that was left. Looking down, he could see that his abdomen and thigh were only touched by fire, blossomed with rawness. But that was of little comfort to him.

His eye, his left eye, was taped shut with a bandage. He had not even noticed in his drugged state that he was seeing with only one eye. Was he now half-blind? Or was this a temporary problem?

Beside him, the assistant healer watches with wide eyes, biting her lip. Turning slowly back to her, he can see tears welling in the corners of her eyes – tears she was holding back for him.

"I am a monster," he whispers.

"No," Cala chokes out. Her hand is in his again. The mirror is dropped upon the mattress, forgotten. He is glad it is gone. "No, no. You are not. You are never."

"Look at me," he says, voice rising. "Or rather not. I am the stuff of nightmares. I am a cripple, blind –"

"You are not. You are a hero." She cuts him off. "Thranduil, it is not so bad. In time, you shall be able to use your arm again."

"But shall the burns ever heal?" he hisses.

She cannot answer. Silent, she bows her head. He withdraws his hand from her grasp.

"Leave me."

At this, Caladhiel's grey eyes flash. "I shall not."

"I am a monster. A thing. A half-person," he says bitterly. "I do not deserve your attention, nor your care. Go to others more deserving. I am ready to die."

"You are my prince and I shall stay," she replies sharply. "Do not be so petty – there are many here on death's door who would easily insist that I return to you. You have a loyal people, my lord, who will miss you and who will follow you, scars nor not, beyond the edge of the earth. Do not disregard their love for your silly dramatics. You are alive and will remain so if I and they have anything to say about it."

Her speech shocks him into silence. It's just enough so that she might fetch him a second cup of water, and further medications. After administering the drug, she goes back to his bedside. The prince, silent, holds his good hand out, open for her. With the barest of smiles, Cala accepts. She remains beside him until duty calls for her, and by then he is in deep slumber.

**-XXX-**

He sees her sporadically throughout the next seven days. Still in the heat of battle, there is little time for her to tend to him when he is in a relatively stable state. But she comes. And he waits for her. And she comes.

Fortesbrawn had little to say that Caladhiel had not already told him. The burns were bad, yes, he knew that, but how were they to fix them. The healer assured the prince that he would find some sort of cure, in time. Because of this, even when Thranduil feels strong enough to walk again he stays in his tent. A small number pass through the flap that acts as a door, two nurse, a handful of guardsmen and commanders, and his head healer, not to mention Cala. A pair of guards are constantly stationed outside. He does not know if they are to keep him in or others out. It matters not – he possesses no desire to go outside of the tent. He is not ready to see anyone yet.

He does not know if he ever will me.

_"I am a monster," _he had told Cala.

_"No," _she had said.

The prince doubts that others will share her sentiments. Cala's compassion is the only thing that prevents him from feeling like a thing of nightmares. The others, his healer not included, look away, carefully avoiding his left side if they dare look at him at all. He feels like a half-creature. A half-person. A shadow.

She comes. In the evening, when the dying and injured are quieted by nightfall. In the morning, before most of the camp is awake. Cala comes to sit beside him.

Sometimes, to distract him, she recites poems from memory or sings. There are few books to be found in the camp, and most of them are filled with maps and incantations, not tomes for pleasure-reading. So she tells stories as well, when it is too late for singing. Her favorites are of Lúthien.

He likes it when she sings. They are songs of sunshine, tragic love, the far-away sea, magical woods, and mysteries. Her voice isn't the loveliest he's ever heard, but there is a certain charm to it. If his voice were strong enough, it would join with hers. But the fire has gone deep, deep into his lungs. He wonders if he shall ever sing again.

"You will, in time," Cala reassures him when he voices this fear. "I think Fortersbrawn has a solution he is concocting."

She says nothing more on the matter.

He wakes one morning to find her beside him, legs crossed, chin propped on her hand, the elbow of which rests on her knees. She is drowsy, blinking blearily at him, and he realizes that she's likely been asleep in that chair all night. He scolds her.

"You need your rest."

"You were not sleeping well," she counters. "You were having nightmares. I could not leave you alone."

He'll likely have nightmare for the rest of his days. He does not tell her this, but instead thanks her.

The week passes, and he is allowed to see himself once more when Fortesbrawn does his daily evaluation. The bandage on his eye is removed. In the mirror, he can see that the entire orb is now a milky white. It might fade, he is told, with time. There is no sight, but he can make out shards of light. Occasionally shadows.

Other wounds are no better or worse. There has been little change. The burns seem to be something he'll have to live with.

"Better than dying with them," Cala tells him bluntly.

"When you've reclaimed your strength, we shall see about a glamor," Fortesbrawn says. "It requires little magic and focus – you shall wear it as naturally as you would wear a crown. No one would be the wiser."

He'd prefer to solve the problem rather than hiding it. But if this was the best that his healer had to offer he must take it.

**-XXX-**

Only a day later he receives word of Oropher's demise. It comes first as a mutual cry sounding throughout the camp, then as a messenger.

He weeps.

The battle is over. Sauron has been defeated. Still, Thranduil hardly feels as though they have won.

Cala comes to him that night, somber and silent. She sits with him, holding him as he cries again. She cries too, and he can tell she is already worn out from mourning – that she, too, had wept throughout the day. Their eyes and hearts ache from tears, but they cannot stop.

They fall asleep together in his tiny bed. The maiden wakes before dawn and slips out quietly. He misses her almost as soon as she goes.

**-XXX-**

Another five days pass. Most everyone had returned to their homelands or other camps. A small group has remained on the plains to care for the dead, though Thranduil stays on his healer's order. Five day pass after the final battle, and Fortesbrawn allows Thranduil to return home.

The trip that would normally take two days lasts six, as the prince's condition requires the most delicate of motion. He rides in the back of a covered wagon, on a pallet, with a nurse and Cala to tend to him. Every bump in the road, every less-than-smooth turn sends aches through his body, though the drugs he has been taking are quite potent.

Finally they arrive. Once back in the Greenwood, he does not see Cala for a long time. The palace healers take her place. He does not know if she remains in the palace or had seen fit to move back to her cottage. He desperately hopes that she has not. In time, he feels pressed to summon her to him.

She comes. Dressed in a brown dress, wearing her healer's apron, hair braided back neatly, the maiden surfaces from the healing rooms. She has been tending to those injured in the battle.

"I tried to come," she says when he reaches for her. "Believe me, I did, but…I was told you were not seeing anyone. Day after day I tried, but I was told you would not see me."

All he can do is pull her hands into his, absorbing their warmth. When he concentrates, he can manage a glamor. Closing his eyes he imagines himself, whole and hale. When he opens them, he feels the faint tinkle of magic against his dead flesh. She watches him, something like concern flickering in her grey eyes.

"I will never cease wishing to see you," he tells her.

**-XXX-**

He is crowned shortly before his father's funeral. The affair is simple. By then he could hold on to the glamor for long periods of time easily. No one, outside of those on his healing staff, could ever guess that the new king had such a scarred face.

For his coronation, he chooses not the circlet his father was slain in, as was custom, but a dark silver crown, made to look like twisting thorn vines. Metal tooled to resemble ivy surrounds the base. It is a crown of peace – much as he hopes his reign will be. The Greenwood would seclude itself under his rule. The affairs of the outside world must trouble him not….

Soon, Caladhiel slips from his life. It is slowly, as though she is trying to avoid any fuss. But he notices when he sees her less and less about the infirmary. It is as though she is sand, slipping between his fingers. He can only stop a few grains, but soon, it has all blown into the wind. She returns to her cottage and her bees. He makes several attempts to persuade her to return to palace life, but each of his letters are returned with polite note declining. And slowly, thoughts of her fade from his everyday life. Matters of business and state occupy his days now. He has little time to be begging beekeepers back into his life.

**-XXX-**

Ten years pass as ten years do – slowly, and simultaneously, at a break-neck speed. His realm is not quite thriving – but nor is it in any kind of turmoil. In the decade following his father's death, Thranduil transitions gracefully into his new role as king. Trade has not decreased, though diplomatic interactions with the outside world has occurred less and less under his rule. He still sends envoys to the Elven Realms, yes, and occasionally to those of Men (with them it seemed pointless, really, to establish connections with different kings when they merely dropped like fruit flies). But it is not with the frequency seen under his father's hand.

Still, the Greenwood survives. He was getting along perfectly well as king, his people thrived, and the wood stood strong.

However, he was not allowed to be so content for long. Advisors pestered him continuously, and in his tenth year of ruling the realm, their theme was marriage.

"Ten years is long enough for any king," they agreed. "And you were a bachelor long before you wore the crown."

"It would have been ideal that you took to the throne already married," one added. "Now you must choose most delicately, lest you offend one of your allies. The marriages of kings can make or break alliances. We could have a mess in foreign affairs."

He brushed them off. "I do not require any wife."

"But, in time, you shall need an _heir."_

_ "Oh. Yes. That_."

**-XXX-**

Another meeting of his advisor's council, and Thranduil suffered from yet another headache, as he was wont to do following such meetings. The bickering and fuss seemed to rot his brain just a little more each time. He left the conference chambers with heavy strides, thinking that a walk might perhaps ease him.

He chooses a secluded path, one that often goes overlooked for it is close to the surface, so close that windows formed by erosions in the rock allow sunlight to seep in from above. It is as close to the outside as one might get living in his palace. While others might simply go outside, nothing is that simple for the king.

Eventually he walked with a lighter step, his heartbeat slowed, and he felt as though he could breath properly once more. _"Temper," _he reminds himself.

There is a break in his focus as a melody sounds through the cavern – sweet, though not strong, light and airy. Some _dess _somewhere below him sings of _tathor_, of willow trees. It is a sad song of a lonely tree. He knows it, and can faintly trace the lyrics in his mind as she sings. Cala sang it to him, once.

As though summoned by his thoughts, she appears. Along one of the soft mossy spots near one of the many streams that run though his underground domain, she sits. But she is not alone. No, there is a toddling babe with her. Its chubby legs are bowedly attempting to support itself, though Cala holds it gently by the waist. The arms flap wildly, excitedly. With a coo, she tips the babe back, shaking her head and making silly noises. The child howls with laughter, which is mingled with Cala's. Tenderly, she sets the baby on the mossy bed. It sits upright, unsupported, stuffing one fist in its own mouth.

Cala is simply smiling, pleased to interact with the babe. Singing softly, she strokes the wispy brown strands that line the child's skull, duck fluff of hair. She is positively enthralled.

At that moment he's given a terrible thought, one that should not be so terrible – that perhaps this babe is hers.

Immediately he scolds himself. The idea of Caladhiel having a life and a family ought not be so terrible to him. The happiness of any of his subjects ought to be pleasing, if he has feeling on the matter at all, a wondrous thing. And if anyone deserved happiness, it would surely be Caladhiel of Bee's Keep.

He had not seen her since around the time of his father's death. Not only on the occasion, but a few weeks later, at the stately funeral service. He followed the pallet that carried Oropher's body, a carefully crafted vessel pulled by a pair of majestic stags, flowers lain about so as to surround him with layers of white petals. He walked behind, a wall of mourners on either side – the whole kingdom had turned out for the procession – nodding every so often at those he recognized. Cala, dressed in grey, the hood of her cloak pulled up, eyes downcast, was one of those few. He had sought her gaze longer, pausing in his strides to acknowledge her. But she did not look up. She had her head bowed, biting her lower lip.

A few months later, perhaps, he'd spoken to her at the arrival of their last troops. She had been with her friend again. He was king, then, and they'd only spoke for a mere moment -

Yes, that was the last time. He occasional thought he might have snatched a glance at a festival or ball, while observing the goings-on of the village beyond the palace gates, or on days of open court. But he was never sure.

After the war, she'd given up healing. Fortesbrawn had begged her to stay, As had Thranduil,but she said her heart was not in the work – she was not able to have steady hands without the passion to tell herself that this was work she was meant to do. But she still tended to the few he sent her way, on occasion. Thranduil had supposed that she went back to her little corner of the world at the edge of the Greenwood, back to her cottage and her bees. Though, perhaps, she did not go alone.

Somehow this makes his chest ache. Angrily, he banishes the pain. _"Not yours to keep," _he reminds himself. _"Not to be yours."_

His father would be aghast to know that his son was having such feelings towards a Silvan elf. A half-elven, as well, despite being a descendent of Lùthien, was still half-elven. Not fit to be a queen, or even a consort.

He watches her only for a moment more before slipping quietly away, as though he'd never come across her at all.

**-XXX-**

**We finally get a chance to really delve into Thranduil's POV! We did backtrack a little, though with good reason. **

**Thank you so much for your lovely feedback! More reviews would be absolutely grand. **


	7. Chapter 7

**Lovely responses, thank you all so much! I hope everyone is had a wonderful Father's Day!**

**In an attempt to get through this a little faster (I've got two stories I'm posting on at once, plus another in the works that will hopefully be unveiled after the conclusion of this), I'm making an effort to post every 5 days rather than every week. It's not a huge difference, but it may very well change to every 3 or 4. We've still got a long way to go with 25 planned chapters so far! **

**-XXX-**

When Arhiel is taken ill by a fever, I go to visit Fortesbrawn in the palace for advice. Elves do not often get sick, so it troubles me greatly, enough that I would turn to the highest authority I know on the matter. I do not typically go past the tall gates of the Greenwood fortress if I can help it. He's out, at the moment, however, when I arrive. In my wait, I make my way to one of the gardens. Despite the damp and dark, some small pockets of lights allowed by holes in the cavern's ceiling create lovely chambers for gardens. They are not nearly as fine as I hear Rivendell's to be, but nevertheless lovely.

It is in one of these courtyards that I find myself sitting, waiting for Fortesbrawn. I lay back on one of the stone benches to stare up at the slip of sky above. It's grey, cloudy, threatening of rain. I should wonder what to think of living in a place where no rain ever hits the ground.

A sound breaks my concentration. I half-rise from the bench, turning to the entryway of the courtyard.

A figure moves forth from the pillars that line the door. Someone so still and so tall, I'd mistaken their shadow for that of one of the pillars. When they better approach the light I can see it to be Thranduil. Rising swiftly, I do my very best to straighten myself. I've worn a descent gown today, knowing that I would be seen by those of a higher rank. It's an old dress, still, one I've had for well over two centuries. The tawny silk rustles when I stand and bow. It has wide sleeves that bell out at the wrists, the collar and bodice decorated with gold and ivory ribbons, embroidery in a delicate scrolling pattern with small amber beads scattered about. Utterly useless if one should wish to accomplish any sort of descent work.

"My lord Thranduil."

"You need not do that every time we encounter one another," he says softly on his approach. "There was a time when you simply called me by my name."

"That was long ago, my lord. I do not wish to be forward." I avert my gaze to my hands, folded neatly at my waist.

"You are not forward if your king commands it."

This brings a slight tug about my lips as I resist the urge to smile. "And does he command it? For that is the only way I shall cease…sire."

A sigh. Thranduil moves past me, looking upwards at the grey piece of sky overhead. The white light cast down upon him makes him look ethereal. More than noble – magic. When he looks back at me, a strange curiosity in his gaze, I forget myself and stare back, my own eyes stupidly wide. When my senses return to me, I shake slightly.

"What brings you within my walls?" he asks lowly. "I know you do not often come here…."

"I do not often have business here," I say respectfully. "Meaning no offense, but this underground labyrinth does not exactly make me feel…at-ease. I prefer the wood by far to caverns and dampness."

"It is not so damp and dark," Thranduil says mildly. "But that does not answer my question."

"A friend is ill. I came seeking your healer's advice."

He frowns. "Fortesbrawn will help you, but surely you can heal well enough. You were very talented in the medicinal arts, if I remember."

"Battle wounds and blood, yes," I agree. "But this is an illness I know nothing of. I was hoping Fortesbrawn might come and see her."

"He should not be so busy that it would be any inconvenience." Thranduil pauses. After a time, he asks, "And how do you fare, Beekeeper?"

There is a distance between us. I can feel it in his words. No longer am I "Cala." He does not move to take up my hands. Familiarity has gone with the years and left us confused. I feel, truly, that I do not know him. He is Thranduil the King, now. No longer the prince I knew. I find that this thought bothers me – but what am I to expect after a decade of distance?

"I am well," I answer softly. "My bees thrive and my parcel is orderly."

"Your family?"

"Aside from those friends that I call such, all are in the Undying Lands."

He tilts his head at me. "You are half-elven, are you not?"

It is a strange shift in subject. "Yes, my lord. Straight from my father's side, though above that my mother was of Men. A daughter of Dale."

"And do you hope to see the Undying Lands someday?"

A deeply personal question, it takes me sometime to muster up the words. I cross to sit again on the bench, smoothing out my skirt as I settle, considering. "I – have not yet made that decision, my lord."

His lips press together. "What shall persuade you to make it, Caladhiel?"

"I know not what. Time, I suppose, that is the best answer I can give you."

"It is an honest one, at the very least." He sits beside me. While I have seen him many times in regale attire, it has always been at a distance. To see him up-close in his burgundy robes with a tall crown is new, intimidating.

"How are you, my king?" I ask after a brief silence.

"A king is always well."

"Unless he is not," I say seriously. "Do you usually take to scaring maidens while you wander about the palace, or is this a new hobby?"

This brings me a slight smile. "Forgive me. I was surprised to find you here and you were to find me. I was sure you were a dream."

I snort. "Hardly."

"It is a true wonder to see you in something other than trousers or blood-stained robes."

I nudge him, then stop when I remember that he is my king. Thranduil elbows me back. Relaxing a little more, I return the gesture for a final time. He allows himself the barest hint of a smile.

"How are you, truly?"

One hand moves up to the left side of his face. For a brief flash, I can see marred flesh, an eye with a near-white iris and faded pupil, bare muscle and bone. Then, it's gone. I blink, uncertain if it is a thrown glamor or my own imagination.

"I am alive," he answers. "And I am king. I believe there is not much else to say in regards to the matter."

**-XXX-**

He escorts her to the infirmary after another few minutes. In silence, they walk the dim halls of Greenwood, both bowing their heads to those that pass. By and by, Caladhiel would remark on the beauty of this-or-that object, trying to make up for, he believes, previously claiming to dislike his home. He takes it in good humor, nodding solemnly and declaring all things to be quite fine.

They reach Fortesbrawn's office to find the healer back again. Surprised, he rose to greet them both heartily, declaring himself overjoyed to see Cala. After an embrace, she turns to her business, and Thranduil quietly departs, leaving them to their business.

Silent, he walks through Greenwood's halls, pondering the interaction, among other things. When he realizes the time, the king retires to his office, intent on writing letters to various nobles, survey the grain haul from the previous, and review the latest reports from the patrol. Though the remainder of his day continues without any deviation, he is left musing long into the night.

For a mere shade of a second he'd lost his glamor. It had not been any failure in strength nor lack of concentration or anything of that nature. It had simply slipped before Cala's eyes, removed like a veil in the breeze. Not only had he felt the failure, but he had seen her expression at it – shock, then pity, mixed with a hint of terror and admiration.

Bitterly, Thranduil sat before his mantel, gazing into the flame long into the night. Of all persons, he ought to be at least a little contented that it was she who had seen his failing. After all, it was Cala who had seen him at the very darkest moments, the times when he was not certain he was an elf anymore. She had watched him wither in agony, curled in pain, weep freely for the loss of his father…still he would have preferred that she, nor anyone, see beyond his glamor. It was his second skin now. To be without was to be naked.

Weary of thinking, he eventually rises from his chair to go to bed. Is a lonely place, the royal apartments. No one, save for a handful of servants, are allowed in. He thinks, as he dons a nightshirt, that he might one day care to have a family there – a wife waiting for him in bed, a child bounding in at dawn to wake them up.

_"But not so soon," _the king tells himself wearily as he slips between the sheets. There is still much to be done before he could consider that avenue. Royal marriages are quite some work, he recalls. "_All of the diplomacy…."_

With that he thinks on it no more, and retires.

**-XXX-**

Following the war, Esgaroth had thrived relatively well. I ventured out more often to sell my wares, to mingle among the Men. Rylittle still comes to take orders, but I occasionally seek to simply disappear among those I do not know, to walk silently in a crowd without anyone calling out to me – not that it was a frequent hazard – and lose myself.

I come with a few deliveries, a heavy basket of jars, wax, and candles. The houses I stop by after a wary navigation of the series of canals are all grateful. I am invited in twice, and end up sitting a spell at each household. At one point, a buyer's child scrambles onto my lap in an attempt to evade the teasing of siblings. The girl's mother is horrified, scared, I am certain, that the aloof she-elf would toss the child to the floor. But instead I bounce the girl on my knee, whispering my confidence in her ability to overcome her brother's wooden swords. The child giggles, turning into me to speak. We have quite the conversation between the two of us, and I even manage to get a word or two to her mother over her head.

After making my deliveries, I wander about the market place. There is not much to buy that I could not get in the villages of Greenwood, and many items have a lesser craftsmanship, but I still manage to find a few things. Fish, fresh from the lake, along with a new basket, finely spun silk thread from Rivendell, and an interesting cheese from Bree. I'd not gotten new goats since I returned from the war, so I've relied on Esgaroth and Greenwood to supply me. Though, the freshness left much to be desired….

With nothing left to purchase, I aimlessly walk along the canals, listening to the gossip. Things had truly changed for the better since the fall of Sauron. It was as if a new light were spread among the lives of Men. In the years since the war, each visit to Esgaroth was a touch more cheery. The heaviness of previous times were gone.

Among them, I still felt like an outsider, yet, remarkably less so. Whispers of _"half-blood" _do not follow me here. Here I am "Erlea," which only a few find to be "off" – not many recognize it as something other than an elfin name. For the most part, the people of Esgaroth see me as nothing more than an elf. They do not realize that half of the blood in my veins is just as theirs – mortal. Human. I do not know what they would think of me, should they know. Would I be revered? Mistrusted? Loathed?

I do not really care to know.

"Mornin', Miss Erlea!" A voice breaks my concentration. The name my mother had preferred, my mortal name, gives me a start. I look up from the murky waters of the canal to see Rylittle nervously approaching. "What brings you to our lake?"

"A bit of shopping," I say quickly. "And a few deliveries. Personal ones. They needed specific honeys…."

He waves a hand. "No trouble, miss." A grin. "Your honey sells faster than a Rohan's rider over the horizon, a few jars here and there won't get me outta business."

I relax. He peers at me, still, then asks. "I do not often see you about town. Was there something specific you was looking for outside of your deliveries?"

"No," I assure him. "I simply like coming here sometimes."

"Funny," he says. "Most of your kind avoid us like a plague. Make their trades and get out."

A cold feeling sinks into the pit of my stomach, but I manage evenly. "They do not appreciate then, what Esgaroth has to offer."

"Eh. Maybe. I think they're more opposed to rubbin' shoulders with us folk more than anything." Rylittle shrugs. "Begging your pardon."

"No offense taken. I know how…I know how we can seem, sometimes. Distant. Aloof."

"Yes," he agrees. "But beautifully so. Can I help you with anything, Erlea?"

"No, I think I shall return home. Will I see you in the fortnight?"

"As ever," he assures me. I bow my head, then step away, gathering my purchases.

I pick my way down the canal, not looking back. On the way home, I cannot stop thinking on the conversation, my own discomfort, and the child. The girl did not seem to note nor care that I was not like her. That's why I like children, I think. They are untainted of bitterness and bias.

**-XXX-**

Early in his years, Thranduil had developed a habit of rising before dawn. He would meditate, dress carefully, and take a turn about the grounds. After a good hour or two was spent in contemplation, he would make his way to the kitchens. The kitchen's primary staff rose up earlier than he did. The head cook, a sour old elf by the name of Marnilieh, ruled her kitchen kingdom with as much dignity and grace as his father. She consent to have him take his breakfast at her scrubbed table as she set about her tasks for the day – chopping carrots or pounding out stiff dough for bread. At her table, he learned much in his formative years, mostly through observation. Past that he simply came to enjoy the routine. As king, Marnilieh treated him no different than when he were a boy, a mere princeling. Should he snatch at a morsel from her cutting board he would still receive a swift poke or slap. The others might gasp at her action, but Thranduil usually simply laughed or sulked, depending on the tastiness of the food in question.

There was something about the consistent nature of the kitchens – staff came and went, yes, but the place never truly saw change. Marnilieh was a great believer in tradition. If something worked well, it work well; what was the use in changing it? He found that it was a philosophy that he could scarcely disagree with.

Much of his education came from the example of those who were not his tutors and not his father. Marnilieh was perhaps his best teacher in how one might run a kingdom. He watched her lord over her assistance in a firm, yet compassionate kind of way. Unyielding in her nature, she knew just when to give an inch. And she did not much care for outsiders.

It was perhaps three weeks after he encountered the beekeeper in his gardens when she again stumbled into his routine. He is a little early getting to the kitchens – restless of mind, he couldn't focus enough to justify extending his walk, so he'd given it up for breakfast instead. When he arrives he finds not merely Marnilieh at the stove, but Caladhiel beside her, writing quite seriously on a scrap of paper. She holds a basket filled with several heavy clay jars of what is undoubtedly her fine honey. At his entry, both women look up. Marnilieh, unimpressed by his appearance, wave for him to sit while Caladhiel scrambles to bow sloppily.

After their business is finished the cook instructs Cala to place the basket on the table – "You'll stretch your arms out, silly girl!" – then turns back to her pot. It was porridge, unless he was mistaken.

"If you want any, fetch yourself a bowl," she tells the king over her shoulder. "And grab the lady one too. I can imagine that you're hungry, likely didn't have much time to eat for rising so early."

"Oh, I had a few berries on my walk," Caladhiel answers absentmindedly, but Marnilieh ignores her, as she ignores everyone who walks through her doors claiming to not be hungry.

Thranduil brings the bowls. He can feel the beekeeper watching him as he nears, offering the dishes to Marnilieh. He does not return the gaze.

"Go on, sit," the cook orders Cala when the bowls are filled. "Put some of your own honey on that. There's cloves and cinnamon on the table, along with some blackberries, just how I know you like it. " She says this last part to Thranduil, who does indeed enjoy fruit in his porridge. "Don't indulge on the treacle too much."

Cala, who appears caught between terror and fascination, simply watches as the king prepares his breakfast. Marnilieh goes about bustling through her morning to-do list, leaving the pair in the corner to speak. After several moments, Thranduil entreats the beekeeper to eat.

"It's far better warm," he says around a mouthful.

She begins to stir at the bowl, but doesn't eat. "I did not think you would be the sort to take your breakfast in the kitchens. Nor befriend the cook."

"Ah, I did not befriend her," Thranduil answers. "I came under her mentorship when I was but a boy. She is more of a teacher than anything."

"That is still very curious that a king ought to be the pupil of a cook. Tell me, can you make a descent pie?"

He considers. "I think I might, given time. I've seen it done often enough."

"Then your education was not in cooking?"

"No." He stretches, peering at her with a slight twist to his lips. "It was more in the nature of life and the fine art of leading others."

"And who would know better than a cook?" She says this with a smile, but he knows her not to be mocking. Thranduil decides to change the subject. She begins topping her breakfast with a thick layer of amber honey from one of her own jars.

Transfixed by the tranquil flow of the heavy syrup, he asks, "Do you often bring us honey?"

Surprised, Cala glances up. "Every fortnight or so. You use quite a bit, you know. The palace is likely my best client."

"Hm. That is good to know."

She gives him a long look. "You'd have to import if you give up me, my lord. The next nearest keeper worth their weight is beeswax is quite a ways off, I assure you. "

He laughs. "I believe you. It is merely a useful thing to know. Should you hit harder times…I am sure that we could always buy more from you."

"You purchase enough of my goods as it is, my lord," she replies cheerfully. "Nearly all the candles you have come from my wax, which I sell to the candle-maker. And all the nobles buy my honey, as they inquire what it is that make the sweet breads taste so much like apples or cherry or strawberry. You keep me in business well enough. But I do thank you. That is generous."

He feels a little foolish for his offer. Nevertheless, he goes on. "How fares your friend?"

"She is well. Fortesbrawn was a great deal of help."

"I am glad to hear that. Are you not hungry?" He nods to her porridge.

"Oh, well, I am fine," she says, taking a hasty spoonful. "Just a little – it's disconcerting. Seeing you. My lord."

Her awkwardness is endearing. He leans back, regarding her with great humor. Now she is the one feeling foolish.

"How so?"

"It has just been so long," she says. "I feel a familiarity towards you, yet I dare not act on it – you're my king now."

"That is no so different from being your prince."

"It is," she insists after another bite. She must like the porridge, a good third of the bowl has already disappeared. He smiles down into his own breakfast. "Just…it is. I do not know how to treat you."

Quietly, Thranduil answers. "You have seen me at my highest and lowest moments. Despite the distance of years, I do regard you as someone near to me."

Cala blinks in surprise. "I…am honored, my lord. Thranduil," she amends.

He suddenly feels quite guilty for making her feel so very uncomfortable. It is difficult, sometimes, to step back from his typical seriousness, to walk away from being a king to instead simply be an elf. He loses himself. Trying to soften, he speaks with a greater lightness.

"I should like to see you more," he says, turning back to his breakfast. "I am ashamed that I did not reach out to after the war –"

"You are busy," she insists. "You had much on your plate at the time. I am a mere beekeeper, I cannot imagine your responsibility, and there was no offense. Besides, I barely made the effort, knowing you to be so occupied. We're friends, I think. And friends ought not be so offended."

Thranduil manages to suppress a smile. "Yes. Yes, I believe we are."

**-XXX-**

** More of Thranduil's perspective. It's not going to ever be as long or as frequent as Cala's, unfortunately. But you'll get plenty of snippets here and there.**

**Reviews are, as always, much appreciated. **


	8. Chapter 8

Keeper 8

**Apologies for the delay! I was unexpectedly given a volunteer job that has kept me busy! **

**-XXX-**

After our breakfast, I see the king more frequently, though rarely out of any effort of my own. I do make a point to come into the village more, and to come to the palace. It's odd to ask after the king, so more often than not I just wander the halls aimlessly, knowing that he will find me – people tended to tell him, I think, having been told to watch for me. If he is not busy, he will come and we will walk for a time. However, should he be terribly occupied I'll continue my exploration of the caverns, perhaps visiting Fortesbrawn. He'll put me to work in the infirmary – there is a never-ending flow of guardsmen coming in with injuries from the sparring rings or foolhardy behavior on their patrols.

"I do wish you had stayed on with me," Fortesbrawn sighs one afternoon as I wrap a bandage around one guard's cut palm. "I could use an apprentice, and you do have quite the touch. Skilled hands like yours do not often come 'round."

I smile, tightening the cotton. The guard winces. "You can keep wishing."

"Ah, you like your bees far too much. They cannot give you the satisfaction of helping others, can they?"

"No," I agree. "But they give me peace. They're very quiet you see. Well, as quiet as bees can be."

He is amused, but flicks my shoulder anyways. "Well, should you ever desire human company, remember that you may always come to me – I would not turn you away, and healing hands are always needed here."

"I shall keep it in mind."

**-XXX-**

It is one afternoon when I come to visit Kal and Beriana that I am cornered by my friend. We're in her kitchen. She scoops up Kal, taking us all outside, setting the baby in the garden, then pulling me aside.

"What is this I hear of you going to the palace so frequently? They say you've in several times a week, always seen walking with the king."

"Oh, that is not fair," I protest. "A good deal of the time I am in the infirmary."

"Is he ill, then?"

I scoff. "No, of course not. I go to help Fortesbrawn."

Beriana remains unconvinced. She sinks to the grass, folding her skirts beneath her with a sigh, shaking her head. I follow suit, skirts pooling around me.. For a time we watch Kalock happily pull up fistfuls of grass. I idly pick a few flowers and begin weaving a crown. Beriana watches me. Twisting and tucking stems, I create a thick chain of clover.

On my third row, I ask, "How did you hear of this? Who was telling you that I have been at the palace so often?"

"No one specific." She hesitates. "Truthfully, all of the villages have been speaking of it."

Instantly, my composure darkens. I let my hands fall to my lap.

"It is not your birthright that gives them interest," Beriana hastily assures. "Merely the fact that he chooses to spend so much time with anyone at all. He is not…the king does not have friends. Nor has he taken on any lovers – that we know of, but we all know that things of that nature are often more known than not with the state of palace gossip. It is curious to everyone that he is being so very…open with you."

"We have quite the history together; I was given his charge when he fell at Dasgorlad. Why should we not be friends?"

"No one is saying that you should not – there is simply talk. You know how it goes."

I do. The lives of the nobility seem to unnaturally preoccupy everyone. Any tidbit in the courting goings-on, the latest rifts, et cetera. It could sometimes be maddeningly trifle, occasionally amusing, generally a social norm everyone seemed to accept. But while most is scandalous, my interactions with Thranduil are plainly boring. I do not see why they should hold anyone's interest for long. I tell Beriana as much. She shrugs.

"It's odd that you should have a relationship with the king. You're a beekeeper. Not a nobody, but still not someone people would really picture as acting as his confidant."

The look I cast her is enough for her to send me one back.

"You know what I mean," she chastises. Stretching her hands out to her babe, she calls for Kalock to come to her. He toddles on wobbly legs, dropping to a crawl.

"Yes," I sigh. "I assure you, this attention is nothing I seek."

"Well, you are receiving," my friend warns, nuzzling her baby. "You watch next time you walk through market. You'll see."

I reach out for Kal. He eagerly takes my hand, babbling as he tugs on my wiggling fingers. "Cal! Cal!"

"That is your name, little acorn," I tell him, leaning. "Caladhiel is mine. Cal-la."

"Cal!" he squeals, pleased that he's heard a few familiar sounds, as though I am agreeing with him. I place my flower-crown on his head. It falls to his neck, as it had been made for his mother, who possessed a larger skull.

Beriana kisses his cheek. "Say 'mama?'"

It takes some convincing, but Kalock eventually graces us with a few cries of "Ma!" So far he's adept at single syllables. It is quite endearing.

I leave them after another hour, heading for home. When I get there, I am met with a surprise.

**-XXX-**

A mighty stag stands in my pasture when I arrive. It stops me short at my gate. Uneasy, I enter my parcel, peering around with concern as I stride past my cottage to the back garden. A shifting from the orchard catches my eye. Thranduil stands at the base of one of the rounded trees, peering up at the green fruit. I approach him.

"You have quite the habit of turning up in unexpected places," I tell him when I reach the tree. "What brings you here?"

"I was in the area. I thought to come see you." His heavy brows rise. "You seem to often go out of your way to visit me. It only felt fair."

"Now I feel embarrassed. To have a king in my humble abode."

He knows that I am teasing, still, I am given a heavy look. With a smile, I join him beneath the tree.

"If it is an imposition –"

"No," I assure him. "My lord. Come inside? It is quite the walk from the palace, I know –"

"I did not walk," he drawls, gesturing to the stag, which has neared to sniff one of the green apples. Delicately, the creature plucks the unripen fruit from the branch, biting into it with an ear-splitting _crunch. _

"I can see. Leave those be," I warn the stag. "Fill you belly on grass, but leave my plants alone."

"Erphalagos, do behave," he says sternly, backing me up. For a moment, I am reminded of parents, teaming up together to scold an unruly child. Suppressing a smile I watch as he locks onto the liquid black eyes of Erphalagos to impart the seriousness of the message.

I lead him inside, offering ale or tea. He accepts tea, sitting at my table to watch me fill the kettle and fetch teacups. After having seen him in the kitchens of the palace, eating porridge from heavy clay bowls at a scrubbed wooden table, I feel less silly about serving him from simply teacups. I set out a plate of fresh honeycakes, sticky with an amber gaze. He's eyeing the colorful plates of glass hanging in my leaded windows.

"Pretty," he remarks. "They resemble gems."

"Beriana made them. They were a birthday gift. She's skilled in creating such trinkets. Some of the ladies of your court favor her beads and pendants to jewels – they are far more inexpensive and just as lovely."

"Indeed." He glances at me. "I would not have imagined you to be fond of frilliness."

I purse my lips, amused. "I may often prefer breeches, my lord, but I am not above appreciation of arts. "

He laughs. "I will not make that mistake again. I know you can be…more feminine."

My brow rises as I set a mug in front of him. "Thank goodness for that."

"Oh, do not be offended," Thranduil says lightly. "I mean nothing by it."

"I know." I fill our mugs, moving to the cupboard for tea.

"Really," he insists. "You are unlike anyone I have known. I've told you before, Cala."

Leaning out of the cupboard, I give him a look. "You clearly do not know many interesting people. "

"Oh, I know a very great number of interesting people," the king assures me. "And you count among one of the most interesting."

"So, what brings you here, my lord?" I ask when I return to the table. "To my humble cottage at the edge of your woods?"

He stirs a hearty teaspoon of honey in his amber tea. "I found myself desiring fresh air. On a whim."

"A whim?"

"Hm," he murmurs in confirmation, reaching for a honeycake. "Friends do visit one another, do they not?"

Surprised, I fold my hands. "Oh. Well, yes. I suppose so. Is that what's happening?"

"Why ever not?"

"Indeed." I bite into a honeycake, savoring the sticky sweetness. "How are you, my lord?"

He muses. "As well as a king can be."

I grin. "So, passable."

"As ever. How fare your bees?" he asks.

"They are well. Happy that the flowers bloom so freely, and that the sun is often out to warm their backs." As I speak, one settles on my wrist, turning slowly, tasting me. I hesitate as I stroke the velvet back. "Have you been hearing any…talk?"

Thranduil frowns. "I hear much in courts by way of talk. Anything specific you are thinking of?"

"Beriana told me that people have noticed that we've been spending time together. They've been talking."

He does not blink. What of it?"

"Doesn't it bother you?"

"Not particularly," he says, setting his mug down lightly. "People talk. Often about me. If I let it trouble me, I'd barely have time to do anything over the course of the day."

He has a fair point. I nod, sipping. "That's probably for the best…."

"Are you troubled by their words?"

"No," I assure him. "More surprised, than anything, that anyone noticed."

Thranduil smiles. "If it has to do with the king, they notice. Pay them no mind, Cala. Their focus only indicates a lack of interest within their own lives."

"You're right. I'm sorry to bring it up…."

He waves a hand. "It is nothing. We are friends."

"We are," I agree. I note that a few bees have landed on his corn-silk locks. I suppress a smile. "I would say my bees are quite fond of you too."

The king smiles. "I am glad to have their approval."

**-XXX-**

From this, he visits several more times. I'll return from the market to find him in the garden, or look out the window to see Erphalagos sniffing at my bees. Always Thranduil comes inside, accepts a cup of tea and a conversation. It's very sporadic. I delicately choose not to mention how much his visits surprise me for fear of offending him. Eventually, as months pass, the visits do not cease and I grow used to his presence in my cottage.

I still go to the palace fairly regularly to see Fortesbrawn. He is always happy to have an extra set of hands in the infirmary. More often than not I come to simply say hello, and three hours later find myself bandaging someone's head. But I do not mind. As Fortesbrawn says, I've got healing hands – I may as well put them to use.

"You would do so well, Caladhiel," he pleads when he asks, for the umpteenth time, that I come to work for him. "Think of all those you could help."

"I do," I assure him. "But I'm afraid I do not have the passion for it, as you do, my friend. My hands would grow unsteady. No, it is best I take this up only on occasion. Besides, by bees would miss me. "

I also frequent the kitchens. Marnilieh always has something for me – sweet rolls, porridge, tea. I will sit on a stool as she bustles around the kitchen, snapping at aides as they chop carrots and measure flour. She's very interested in honey, and often asks about the different types, recommendations for what goes best with wine, cakes, tea, and so on.

"That healer could learn a thing or two from you, Caladhiel," she tells me one day over a pot of stew. "They underestimate the power of your honey, up there." She gestures upward, indicating those upstairs.

I smile half-heartedly. She's right – healers often ignore the benefits of the sticky stuff. Cooks and commoners were most aware of what honey can do. Nobles tend to desire the fuss of a healer, crushed herbs and powders, rather than common cures.

The year passes swiftly – from spring to summer to autumn. With the descent of chill, I find it more and more difficult to pull myself out of bed to deliver honey to the kitchens early in the morning. One morning, I wake to find frost on the windows. My legs are numb with cold, as my hearth's fire has died down in the middle of the night to mere embers, mocking me as they flicker orange-to-black. On top of this, my throat is sore and I'm sneezing terrible. Despite this, I dress slowly and sluggishly make my way to Thranduil's kitchens, grunting a hello to Marnilieh as I set down my basket. She looks up from the cakes she is icing, lips pursed.

"Did you wake on the wrong side of the bed this morning, _nín__ mell?" _an amused voice from the corner inquires. I turn on my heels to find Thranduil seated in the nook where we often took breakfast.

"I did not think you would be here today," I murmur accepting the cup of tea one of Marnilieh's aides passes me.

He pats the bench beside him. "You do not look fully awake, Cala."

"That's because I'm not."

My tone causes him to recoil comically. "My, my. Someone not sleeping well?"

I sip my tea, closing my eyes. "Mmmh. I'm going back to my bed as soon as possible."

"Pity. I was going to ask if you wanted to join me for a ride this morning."

I groan. "Thranduil. I cannot. I'm tired, and sick –"

He holds up a hand. "Have you seen Fortesbrawn?"

"I am a healer myself, you know."

"I am well aware," he agrees. "I also know those who have healing powers more often than not tend to disregard their own health."

"It is merely a cold," I assure him. "Nothing more. I appreciate your concern, in any case."

He muses for a moment. "If you cannot ride with me, then let me escort your home. You are weary. I can save you the walk."

Reluctant, I agree. We head for the stables, where Thranduil orders two horse saddled. I am given a cream-colored gelding, the king a grey stallion. He leads the way until we're out of sight, then we share the path, riding along in comfortable silence. The sun is only just rising, casting a orange-gold hue along the horizon, blending into the blue-black of the early morning sky. All is quiet within the forest.

"Are you sure you are not too ill?" he asks after I interrupt the silence with a series of violent hacks.

I straighten in the saddle. "I'm fine. I just need some rest and tea."

The look he casts me is wary, but Thranduil lets it pass.

"How are you?" I ask abruptly. It's a question I never stop asking, primarily because he never gives me a straight answer.

His brows rise. "Well," he answers slowly.

"Good."

More silence. Then –

"Do you experience any…stiffness, on these cold mornings? In your arm or your leg?"

The king pauses, a little taken aback. I watch his injured hand tighten. "A little, yes," he admits, eyes focused straight ahead. "But not terribly."

"Good," I repeat. "I worry, sometimes. It is not an injury we have much experience with. Can you…see?"

He tilts his head towards me, injured eye flashing. "For the most part," he says softly. "It comes and goes in strength. Fortesbrawn tells me that in a few years it may be restored altogether. It's the worst of my scars, however, the others..." He sighs. "The illusion is easier to maintain. No one would guess what is beneath."

I reach out suddenly to grasp his hand. "Do they heal, Thranduil?"

For a moment, the magic flickers, revealing the twisted, ruined flesh of his left side. I do not recoil. He watches me eye his injuries, then allows the mirage to slide back into place.

"No," he answers quietly. "They don't heal."

I squeeze his hand. "I'm sorry."

"Sometimes, I wish it had killed me," he says suddenly. "I wish the dragon had seen fit to end me, rather than enduring this suffering."

"Do not say that. We would be utterly lost without you." I pause. "It pains you?"

His hands tighten. "Not always. But sometimes, yes."

We are quiet. The clearing my cottage sits in is just ahead. We near the fence, pulling up on our horse's reigns. Thranduil dismounts first, crossing to lift me off of the gelding. When I slide off of the saddle, we're left standing quite close, my back pressed against the horse's side, hands resting on the king's shoulders. In the early morning light, the green stones in his circlet sparkle.

"I am sorry," I say softly.

To my surprise, he allows me a small smile. "There is nothing to apologize for, Cala."

"I still have sympathy for you. I do not wish for you to be in pain, Thranduil."

He tilts his head. "Fortesbrawn helps me control it. Do not fret."

I nod, sagging slightly. He shifts me within his arms. "Come, you're tired. Let me help you inside."

We go inside. The king not only escorts me in, but he also helps me out of my cloak, sets the kettle on, and helps me into bed. Once my head is against the pillow, a sleepy feeling rises within me. My eyes feel heavy.

"Thank you," I say sleepily, attempting to sit up when Thranduil approaches with a steaming mug of tea. "Really, you did not have to –"

"It is what friends do, Cala."

I reach for his hands. Squeezing them, I sigh. "I am glad to have you as a friend, my lord."

"None of that," he chides.

I smile. "Pardon me. M'tired."

"I can tell," he agrees. "Sleep. I will see you within the week, I am sure."

With that, he leaves, slipping out quietly. When I can not longer hear hooves along the path, I roll into my pillow, falling into a deep slumber, hoping that tea, time, and sleep might ride me of this cold.

**-XXX-**

Riding alone through the wood, Thranduil is left to ponder. While, as king, he spends much of his time thinking, the fresh air and gentle wind breezing between the trees inspired him more than the darkness of his caverns.

They had not spoken of his burns in over a decade. In fact, he'd not spoken of them with anyone save for Fortesbrawn. No one, except for those who had been with him when he was burned (which was a small number, as most, Valar bless, had died in the battle) and his healers knew. Fortesbrawn had kept a good eye on them, tracking his improved eyesight, patterns of pain, and so on.

It was odd, to be with someone who knew what he was going through. Who had seen his face, who could look upon him without flinching or fear.

When his advisors attempted to persuade him into marriage, presenting him with ladies and the daughter's of well-regarded dukes, the first thing on his mind is how a young lady might react should he ever show her his true face. If he was to marry, it would be to someone with whom he could relax. Someone who could look past his mask without disgust.

There was no one, among the nobles, if he were honest. And, if he was even more honest, he'd admit that there was no one who had held his eye like Cala had. Not since before the war.

Had he not gone to battle, he might have eventually brushed her aside, moved on to someone more suitable for a prince. But the war came, his father died, and Cala was still there, even after ten years apart.

As he rode, he thought over all of this. Ultimately, he concluded that he was uncertain as to how to proceed, only that he wished to continue seeing Cala, regardless of what might happen.

**-XXX-**

**Okay, quick note on elves getting sick. The research I've done suggests that they cannot unless they begin to fade from a lack of will to live, however, I'm tweaking that a tiny bit. Everything living thing can get sick, why not elves?**

**Thank you for all of the lovely reviews, keep 'em coming! **


	9. Chapter 9

**Keeper 9 **

**A slightly-early update because I was so far behind last week. I hope you're enjoying everything so far!**

**-XXX-**

It's a warm spring day when Thranduil finds me among my hives, collecting the first of the season's honey. I lift up my veil to peer at him as he crosses the garden. Before he's near I've turned back to my hives, too focused on my work to pay my king much mind. "Careful," I say over my shoulder. "They're angry."

One buzzes past his ear. Out of the corner of my eye I watch Thranduil freeze. I giggle.

"Just stay there for a moment."

He patiently waits for me to finish gathering the honey, then follows me to the small table in back of my cottage, where I prepare the comb for separation. He sits on a rickety stool. I do not pay him much mind, though I do note his attire – simple blue tunic, plain brown leggings, and soft boots. He wears a sword, but nothing else beyond his father's white stone ring. It's a very plain outfit today, none of the usual pomp and circumstance. He's also being quite pensive – though it is not unusual for Thranduil to be silent.

"What brings you to me, my lord?"

At the formality, he frowns. "The palace felt stuffy. I longed for some air, a walk. My feet lead me here."

I do not quite believe him. Rearranging my jars, I tilt my head. "That seems to happen a lot, my friend. Does something trouble you?"

"I am well, Caladhiel," he assures me. "Simply a little tired of staying indoors. I'm king of this realm, I ought to be out in it. Among the people and the trees. I cannot be so disconnect from it…." He drifts off, gaze straying to my hands.

"No one doubts that you care for the Greenwood," I sooth. As I speak, a bee lands on my shoulder as if he, too, wishes to watch me work.

The king sighs. "I hope. Enough of me, Cala. How fare you? How fare your bees?"

"Oh, they are contented. Unhappy that there are not nearly so many flowers as last year, but we had a harsher winter, did we not?"

A few land upon the creeping ivy along the wall just before me. There are pink flowers, and they steadily collect pollen, going from blossom to blossom. I eye them for a moment, pausing in my work before turning back to the comb.

"They're doing well enough. If they keep populating at this rate, however, I may have to install another hive. Not that I mind. They're getting quite anxious for space, I think."

"You speak as if they can communicate with you," he remarks.

"Well, yes," I answer lamely. "They kind of can…in a manner of speaking. I suppose if you're around any kind of creature long enough you sort of pick up on their cues and moods…they may be insects, but they're just as tempered as any other kind of living thing. They're funny, really."

"How so?"

I shrug. "They're just very…aware. Sensitive, I guess. They know, by instinct, where in the forest to find flowers year after year. When a less-than-mild season is upon us, they've quite good at stocking up in advance. It's quite curious. They've got a certain level of awareness, I suppose."

Thranduil twists his lips. "You are quite enraptured with them."

"I cannot help but be so."

"It is no fault."

I smile into the comb I am currently cutting. "I am glad that you think so."

"You did not ask my first question; how do you fare?"

"I…" I hesitate for a moment. "I am doing well. Feeling a touch restless. I've been thinking, lately, of journeying to Lorien for a spell. The Wood is…calling me. I've felt unsettled here, lately."

The king frowns. "Lorien? By yourself?"

"I can quite manage, Thranduil," I reassure him. "'Tis nothing that a hundred elves before me have not managed. It isn't a terrible journey, by any means. I'll have to cross a lot of forest, yes, but it is your land. I have no fear."

"Which is perhaps foolish," he answers warily. "It is not an easy journey for one to make alone. Besides, what would you do there?"

Again, I shrug. "I know not. Only that I wish for a bit of distance. I've never traveled. I think, perhaps, that now is the time. Visiting Lorien would be a nice start. I have a few cousins there –"

"When would you do this? For how long?"

His demanding tone gives me pause. It is unlike him – at least, unlike him when it is just the two of us, and he is not acting as king.

"I don't know," I reply slowly, packing up my tools. I've got four good jars of clean, pure raw honey of a lovely sunny hue, the color of the dying rays of an evening sun. As I speak, I start for the cottage. "I was thinking perhaps leaving in autumn and staying through the winter. I'd need to be back in the spring – oh, do not frown so! It is only for a season."

"I do not like the thought of you out there alone," he murmurs, opening the door I cannot manage with my full arms. "Particularly among elves that are not of my house. They of Lothlorien are friends, make no mistake, but they could not protect you as – as I might."

Stunned, I turn to him after setting my jars and tools on my scrubbed table. "Protect me from what? I need no protection, you goose."

He hesitates. "Those who would look down upon you for your blood, Cala."

Now I am well and truly surprised. "Thranduil, if anything, those outside of these woods would be far more accepting of me. I mean, look at Celebrian and Lord Elrond! Celeborn allowed his daughter to marry a half-blooded elf with no hesitation, surely his kingdom would be more welcoming to those of my blood."

"Elrond," Thranduil gave a sudden sneer. "Gave Celeborn more than a few reservations, the least of which being his blood-status. Which did not help."

I recoil. "Thranduil," I say softly. "I've heard that the most blood-hating comes from your realm. Your people. I'm given to wonder if they do not take example from their leadership."

He reddens. "Of course not," he snaps. "I care not what's in your blood. You are you, not what runs through your veins."

"You may say that," I agree. "But what tolerance is shown?"

"Do you not recall how we met?" he asks, frowning. "I was defending you from that brute, at the festival –"

"There have been other brutes. You cannot protect me from them all. At least in Lorien, I doubt there will be nearly as many." I bite my lips. "Mayhaps I'll go on to Rivendell. It would be heartening to be in the house of another who shares my burden of being half-elven."

"One who allows his tainted blood to blind him? Man-and-dwarf-lover," the king hisses. "You will find little solace there, Caladhiel."

I stare. This venom is unlike my friend. My voice barely above a whisper, I ask, "Is this what you would see me protected from? Those who senselessly hate the half-elven? People like _you?"_

"I do not speak to hurt you," he replies calmly. "You must understand, Elrond, he's gotten a streak of something so purely human in him, it has ravaged his reasoning, his logic. He is soft for them –"

"The only crime he's committed in your eyes is being allowed the choice of immortal life or a mortal death." I turn from him, hands curling to fists, which rest against the surface of my table. I require some steadiness, stability. "I think you ought to go, my lord."

Silence falls between us. Then, Thranduil's hands fall to my shoulders, working to turn me to face him.

"Cala," he says, eyes flashing. "Have you made the choice? Have you decided which life you shall led?"

When I do not answer, his eyes grow wide.

"You haven't?" he whispers. Something like rage is bubbling in his chest. I have only seen him this upset once – in the camps at Dagorlad. "Why would you delay – surely you –"

"I do not yet know my answer," I finally reply, just to shut him off. "But it is my decision to make; I do not wish to answer lightly."

"It should not be a difficult choice!" he says fiercely, grip tightening on my shoulders. "Life, Cala, life!"

I reach up to remove his hands from my person. "I think you should leave, my lord. If you stay much longer, I fear one of us may say something they shall regret – though, you may have already beaten me to it."

"Not until you are fit to see reason –"

"You are not in control of my life or my decisions!" Rounding on him, I seethe. "You may be king of this forest and all who reside in it, but you are not such a monarch over my every choice. I will go to Lorien and Rivendell if I wish it, and I shall make my choice on the matter of my mortality when I feel secure in my choice. Now, please," I choke for a moment, tears welling up in my eyes and a sob in my throat. "Go, my lord."

He reaches for me for a moment, hand extended as it he wishes to stroke my hair. But he pulls back, eyes trained on my face with such a look of shock and disappointment that I am forced to look away, lest I burst into tears. It would not do to weep in front of him.

Without another word, he slips out the door. I do not wait to watch him disappear into the forest, but instead scramble up to the loft to throw myself upon my bed, where I weep freely and loudly into my pillow. To be faced with such blatant hate from some I considered friend…more than a friend, even….

I curl into myself, letting my pillow absorb the fat tears racing downing my cheeks with each shuddering sob. In no time, I've cried myself into an uneasy sleep.

**-xxx-**

Frustration wells in his throat as he tears through the trees mounted on Erphalagos, who is living up to his name. "_Noble storm of wind." _

He'd been waiting, curiously, just beyond the treeline past Cala's parcel. Thranduil, weary and a little shocked from his upset with his friend, was vaguely pleased to see the stag. Walking back would not be so terrible, but he feels strangely stiff after the encounter. A ride might be good for him. If anything, it would save him an even longer journey on foot. Or so he assumes.

They ride for what feels like an age. Thranduil suspects that the stag has independently decided that his master requires further air and rides on – they could have returned to the palace nearly an hour ago, but it appears they're taking a longer route. He is not paying much mind to steering, trusting the creature to get him home safely. Though, it now appears it shall be a more scenic journey. He cannot bring himself to mind.

Never before has he seen Cala so close to tears. She looked ready to collapse when she insisted he leave her cozy cottage. Thranduil, just as shocked, was not feeling particularly emotionally stable himself. He couldn't understand. How did they get so heated so quickly?

He had arrived with a short temper, true, after spending all morning in with his council. Not all of his advisors were necessarily of his choosing, which meant that Thranduil often found weary after several hours of incessant bickering. There was some kind of wall between himself and a faction of the council. They simply could not communicate effectively. On his ride to Cala's, he had been pondering this, so he arrived already unhappy. Then to hear of her ambition of leave the Greenwood…to go to Elrond's realm? For an entire season?

Hearing her admit to being undecided on the choice of her mortality had just been icing on the honeycake. _"How can she not _know?_" _he wonders. _"Tis a simple choice. Life. _Life."

But Cala didn't see it that way – she had an entirely different, seemingly illogical perspective on the matter. Some how, she reasoned that the option of passing on, dying willingly, _leaving him_, was not such a terrible notion. The mere thought cause Thranduil to ball his hands into fists so tight that, had he not been wearing gloves, he would have certainly broken through the skin with his nails.

"Foolish girl," he whispers.

Erphalagos snorts, tossing his head as though in agreement. The king stroked the grey-brown neck of his mount, feeling a little calmer as he took several deep, chest-aching breaths.

"She'll see," he reasons. "In time."

But even he, King of the Greenwood Realm, was not certain if he believed those words.

**-XXX-**

** Shorter chapter, but important! A little Thranduil to boot. Don't fret, things will come together….eventually. **

**Reviews, as always, would be grand. I try to reply to them all. Don't hesitate to ask questions or critique! **


	10. Chapter 10

**I've noticed a huge influx of follows and favorites, which is great, I really appreciate them, but please take the time to give me feedback! It'd mean the world to me!**

**Things are getting a little dramatic! I'm not 100% happy with how this chapter turned out, so I may go back in the future and change things a little. The reactions just don't feel authentic to me. **

**-XXX-**

As if sensing my anger, the bees seem to avoid the house for the remainder of the day. I miss their company instantly, and find myself wandering out to their hives simply to hear their symphony of buzzing. I settle myself in the grass nearby, a book in hand (though I disregard reading quickly), watching as they come in and out, carrying pockets full of sweet pollen. They are so set in their task few wander over to visit me.

My mind refuses to rest. I am still disturbed by Thranduil's words, and not even the pleasures of nature, sunshine, or a sweet summer's breeze will lend me any rest.

He, whom I have trusted so deeply, has hurt me with words like knives. As if he had no notion as to what he was saying….Merely thinking of it, my chest aches. Thranduil has never hurt me like this. He is a gentle soul. And, with our friendship spanning nearly thirteen years, we've never truly fought over anything. We've never had anything to fight over.

Desperate to move on, I again take up my book, focusing so hard on the print that I eventually develop a headache and force myself to return indoors for a cup of water and a nap.

**-XXX-**

He shows up in my threshold less than two days later. I'm in the midst of hauling out several of my rugs for beating when I open the door to find him there, fist raised midair. My first reaction is to shut the door in his face, which I do not succeed in doing, so stunned that I cannot move fast enough. He backs me indoors quickly without a word, removing the folded rugs from my arms to set them on the table. Hands going to my forearms, he locks onto me, serious.

"Cala. I meant no disrespect to Lord Elrond nor yourself in what I said. You must know that I was speaking foolishly, without thinking. I know you to be just as…intelligent, just as able as any other elf." His grip tightens as I struggle to release myself from it. "I only meant that your ability to choose mortal death or elven life is…terrifying," he finishes slowly.

His speech does little to move me. "That is the problem, my lord," I reply, quiet. "You only see it as a mortal's death. Not a mortal _life."_

"How could I see it as anything else when it could be your death, Caladhiel?" he demands. Softening, he squeezes my arms gently, attempting to pull me closer. "Cala. You frightened me. That you have not yet made the choice –"

"I've never had a need to."

Thranduil tilts his head. "Never? When shall you have a cause?"

Uncomfortable, I turn away. He lets his arms fall to his sides. I move to the table, taking up my rugs again, refolding a few that were mussed. It is needless, though it serves my want for a briefly occupied mind.

"I do not know," I say finally. "I have not given it much thought."

"It is your _life, _Cala!" he cries.

"I know. It certainly is. I simply have not made up my mind yet." My back is to him, staring at the table.

"It is simple," he tells me, crossing to the other side of the table, leaning in. His hands go over mine. "You belong with us. You are one of our own. You are elven."

I retract my hands. "I do not always feel elven," I counter bitterly. "In fact, I rarely do. You endure the stares and whispers of those you ought to call family. The words of those who should be your friends. Then tell me that I am one of their own. They would not accept me. _You _can hardly accept me. How am I to live with that, my lord? The rest of my days, an outsider in two worlds?"

"Do not call me that," he snaps.

I stare. "What? My lord?"

"Yes. Do not…do not." He turns, facing the window now. I watch his back, his shoulder blades rising and falling in deep breaths. Frustration reverberates off of every string of muscle. "You are no outsider to me. Cala, the few who feel that way are fools. And their minds are changing. They must change."

"You cannot control people's thoughts," I say. "If anything, you have no control over that."

"They shall have to change," he says confidently. "And I seek to alter my thoughts as well. Cala…."

He's turned back from the window now, looking at me in a curious manner. I do not move as Thranduil approaches, rounding the table to stand before me, taking up my hands in his again. "Cala, be my own. Marry me."

I cannot speak. Stunned, I stare up at him, unable to speak or move or even wince as his grip upon my hands tighten nervously. He raises them up tentatively. Brushing a kiss across a few knuckles as he watches me struggle to find words.

"You are not serious," I finally whisper. "This is foolery. You are not serious."

"Entirely," he replies eagerly. "Cala, marry me. I shall say it one thousand times if it shall help you believe me. Marry me. Marry me, and stay with me for the rest of my days."

"I – I surely cannot," I gasp. "I am not fit to be anyone's queen."

"Yet I dearly wish for you to be mine." One hand rises to cup my face. "I do not know what I should do without you. I want you in all of my days…for the rest of time."

"You are not thinking straight, my prince." I begin to babble. "I am a beekeeper, a half-elven daughter, commonest below common, I am not any kind of elf you should wish to marry."

"They are trifling details."

"They are not what makes a queen."

"No," he agrees, to my surprise. "They are not. What makes a queen is compassion and love and level-headedness and her ability to see into the hearts of her people to help them as she must. And those are qualities you certainly possess."

"There will be talk, whispers," I say desperately. "And when there is talk, there is doubt. You are too good of a king to be doubted, Thranduil. I will not give them cause to."

"I don't care. In time they will see –"

"Time will do nothing! I will always be the half-blood. I'm not even noble."

"You have the blood of Lúthien in your veins," he says stubbornly. "That is noble blood."

I shake my head, still incredulously. "Thranduil, no one shall take you seriously!"

One thumb brushes across my cheek. "They need not. I am king. My birthright lends its authority to me." Sensing me shiver against him, he is given pause. "Cala. I adore you. Please, if you have any regard for me, any feeling remotely like mine…say yes."

I close my eyes. Leaning into his touch, it could be so easy to give him what he desires. I move closer. His breath tickles my cheek. I can tell by the way his breathing has slowed that he is nervous –anticipating my answer. But I cannot give it so freely.

"I need time," I whisper.

He recoils briefly, so that he might look at me fully, expression of pain flitting over his typically straight features. Gaze open, Thranduil peers at me, as if trying to read my thoughts. Finally, discerning nothing, he sighs.

"You…you do share my feelings, then?"

I must be honest. Hesitant, I say slowly, "I do not know. What I feel for you is steadfast and strong. I know that I care for you deeply – enough that I am cautious to give you what you desire. You are my friend. Of course I wish only for your happiness."

"I believe we can have it together. Cala…." He touches my cheek again. "I shall not push you. If you require time, take it."

Smiling gently, I mirror his hands and place one on his cheek. "Thank you. I know it is not easy, but it would be impossible for me to answer so soon."

"You surely must have long known my regard," he protests. "I did not hide them from you."

Snorting, I shake my head. "You did not make it particularly obvious, Thranduil. I had only the faintest of notions."

He gives me a look. "How often could I have required honey, Cala, that I came here once a week?"

I shrug. "How am I to know?"

At this he laughs. It please me to see him smile so. Tucking my head beneath his chin, I sigh contentedly. He wraps his arms around me, burying his face in my crown, inhaling deeply. We stand, perfectly silent, for some time.

"I shall be leaving for Rivendell at week's end," he murmurs into my hair. "I will not be gone longer then a month. Do you think then, possibly, that you might be able to give me some kind of answer?"

"I think so."

"Then that is all I can ask." Thranduil pulls back, looking at me as though trying to capture a picture in his mind's eye. "I will see you in a month. Keep me in your thoughts."

"You need never ask," I assure him.

He smiles again, then lowers his head to place a chaste kiss on my lips. I freeze, surprised. He coaxes me to respond, gently applying another to my mouth, encouraging. One hand twines back in my hair, seemingly unwilling to yet depart.

"See that I never do. Will you give me a lock for the journey? To remember you by?"

I take his knife from his belt and saw off a piece from the back of my neck, where it shall be hidden. The process is likely not nearly as fancy or precise as the ladies of courts when they are giving mementos to their lovers, but Thranduil takes a certain delight in my more common ways. He tucks the hair in a handkerchief, kisses me once more, then takes his leave.

There is still a sadness in him when he departs. I know that my refusal to give him a full answer leaves him in great despair – any man would much prefer a swift, certain answer. My reluctance must surely give him doubt in his heart. I only hope that, whatever my answer may be, that we shall now continue on as friends.

**-XXX-**

Thranduil left Caladhiel's cottage with a heavy heart. Once home , he enteres his apartmentsto find several maids bustling about his room, packing for his journey to Rivendell. Irritated that he cannot have a moment of privacy, he leaves with a swirl of his overcoat to find a bit of seclusion near the rivers that run through his caverns. He finds a quiet spot along the water's edge. The sound of flowing water calms him greatly, and he mediates.

When he wakes, it is evening. Though no light has changed within the depths of the caves, he can simply sense it in his bones. Thranduil stretches slowly. His joints ache unkindly, particularly those of his left sids. As he rubs them, he thinks of Cala. Part of him had hoped that she might come before he left. There is still time, but he's uncertain that she will. She may require the whole month. He will be on edge awaiting her answer, he knows. Hopefully, it will be worth the worry – provided she gives him the answer he so greatly longs for. He has waited nearly a year to gather up the nerve to ask her.

She does not come to him before he leaves. He did not expect her to. On the morning of his party's departure, he stands in the stables, staring out of the open door at the thick line of trees. Northeast; towards Cala. As he mounts his stag, his heart clenchs

_"She did not come…."_

They need time apart. He knows this. Regardless, he had hoped that she might come.

He rides Erphalagos to Rivendell. The stag handled the path through Moria quite well. Along with his party of guards and diplomats, he travels six days to reach the river-valley over which Elrond had built his domain. They are welcomed warmly. Elrond personally stand at the gate awaiting them, with his wife, the palely beautiful Celebrian.

"My friend, welcome!" The dark-haired elf smiles, arms open to accept the king. Surprised, Thranduil returns the embrace. "I trust you had a safe journey."

"The steep mounts of Moria were a little greater than I'd recalled, but it was an enjoyable trip, even so," Thranduil replied evenly. "We thank your for your hospitality, Lord Elrond. I am pleased to finally have a chance to visit your realm. Rivendell is as beautiful as was told."

Elrond thanks him, then leads the group to his hall, where dinner is awaiting them. He sits beside the king at the high table. To Thranduil's surprise they converse easily over a great number of topics. Celebrian sits on Elrond's right side, staying quite most of the evening, though he sees her lips upturn occasionally with amusement. He is surprised, though pleased. Elrond offers good company, hospitality, and good wine – though nothing nearly like what they produced in the Greenwood, still tasty. The month would not be so terrible, perhaps. Despite the fact that he would be without Cala's answer.

It niggled the back of his mind. Even when his head sunk into one of the feather pillows Elrond's maids had provided him with, his eyes closing, she sneaks into his thoughts mercilessly. He sighs into the cool silk, letting his mind slip to thoughts of the one who thoughtless torments him so, until he slid gracelessly into sleep.

**-XXX-**

**Again, just a little of Thranduil's POV. We're in the early Third Age here, just a reminder!**

**And a quick warning, I may have difficulty posting over the next 3 weeks. Between vacation and a two-week gig, things may run a little late, but I'll update when I can. **

**As always, please leave some feedback! I try to answer every review, so if you have questions or critiques, don't hesitate! **


	11. Chapter 11

**Since I'm leaving for vacation today, I'm updating a few days early – I likely won't have another chance to until next Saturday or Sunday. I'll be writing like mad – we've got a looooooong road trip – but I might not have wi-fi access. **

**The response to the last chapter was astounding and so lovely. Thank you all who reviewed, I'll be responding as soon as I can. **

**This particular chapter is a little shorter than usual – sorry, it fit with the pace! **

**-XXX-**

Beriana visits a few days after Thranduil. She takes tea with me, as usual. I am quiet, letting her speak at great length on any matter her mind sets upon, too preoccupied with my own thoughts. Remarking on the oddity of my behavior, my friend asks if I am ill.

"No, no," I assure her. "I simply have something on my mind."

She asks what, but I find that I cannot tell her – I don't wish to. Not yet, at least. Not until I know for certain….

"You can't be keeping secrets. We're best friends," she reminds me.

"It's not a secret," I tell her. "It's more of a problem."

"Even more of a reason to tell me!" Beriana says, exasperated. "I swear, it is if you do not understand the contracts of friendship. What troubles you?"

I cannot say. At most, I tell her that it is nothing dangerous, merely a problem that requires great thought and that all will be well in a few weeks' time. Wary, she leaves discontent, making me promise that I will seek her help should I need it in any way.

It does not take me but a week to figure out my answer to Thranduil's proposal. The moment I do I run to my desk, snatching up parchment and pen, resolved to write him in Rivendell. But I pause before the ink hits the pages, before I can even write my first line. These are words to be said in person. It will not do to attempt to set my feelings upon parchment. I scarcely know where I might begin. With heaviness of heart, I return the pen and paper to their proper places, resolving to go about my day. In three weeks, when he returns to the Greenwood, he shall know. The moment he steps foot in our forest, I endeavor to tell him.

Three more weeks ahead of me, I throw myself into my work, though I avoid leaving my parcel like mad. I fear going into the village might somehow sway my mind, or that a trip to Esgaroth will cause me to second guess.

**-XXX-**

It is one of the rare days when I am in market that I hear the word. Bored of barley and desiring something with a little more substance, I go to the village seeking potatoes and fish, thinking to make a hearty dinner, hoping that leeks too might be in season. I strike out on the leeks, and the potatoes look like small, hard, brown stones. It is at a fishermen's stall, I hear a tidbit of gossip that sends me into a frantic rush home.

"Have you heard the latest from Rivendell?" the fisherman's wife asks another woman who has approached the stall. I am looking over a few trout, attempting to discern freshness. Her words give me pause. Thranduil is at Rivendell, due to be back in the Greenwood by the end of the week.

"Yes, my brother came home yesterday with word that the meetings had ended – the first half of their party returned yesterday. The king and his companions ought to be back by this afternoon. They took a little longer as one of the ambassadors was taken ill shortly before they left. But we ought to have Thranduil back soon."

"Goodness, thank Lúthien," the fisherman's wife sighs. "I feel unsettled when there is no king about. But Thranduil is not one to leave often, not as his father."

I whip 'round, startling the women. "He's to be here? Tonight?"

There is a beat as the women stare, the informant's mouth moving soundlessly.

"Uh – yes. They should be riding through the wood now," she says, nervous. "My brother says that court shall be resumed day after tomorrow -

"Thank you," I gasp, moving away quickly before she can finish.

_"Home. I must get home. Then –"_

I push through the crowded marketplace, desperate to gather my thoughts in a quiet place. Just as I am about to escape, Ulain and Beriana stop me towards the mouth of the market. They've got baby Kalock with them. His chubby arms strain for me as he cries, "Cal! Cal!"

Without invitation, Beriana hands him off to me. "Where are you going?"

She nods to my bare basket. "Nothing good here today?

"Awfully long journey to get not anything, Cala," Ulain remarks, wiggling his fingers before his son in a vain attempt to distract him from pulling at my hair. The babe takes one finger, tugging on both the hair and his father's limb with a happy squeal. I wince.

"I was distracted. Thranduil is coming. I –" Shaking my head, I seek the words. "I must go to him. I'm going to find him."

Taken aback, Ulain frowns. "He'll be here in no time, Cala, why not wait?"

"I must see him now. I have to tell him – I must tell him –"

Beriana and her husband exchange a glance. "Cala," she says gently. "It's already noon. Rain is coming, it's bound to be slippery, dangerous. Stay here. Ulain can get you inside the palace, I am sure you can see the king as soon as he's settled – he'll likely summon for you –"

"No," I say firmly. "Now. He has to know. I must go to him." With that I return Kalock to his mother, disentangling myself from his tiny hands.

"Cal!" the babe fusses, reaching again for me. I kiss his cheeks, then turn to his father, handing him my basket.

"What can be so pressing?" he asks me, trying to catch my hands before I slip away. "Cala, if you will just but wait –"

"I've waited over a month now – and Thranduil even longer. I must go."

"This is madness!" Ulain calls after me as I turn to run out of the village into the Greenwood. Overhead, thick, iron-colored clouds roll in, ominous.

When the drizzling begins, I simply turn up the hood of my cloak, thankful that I'd thought to wear it today. But soon, the rain speeds up to a full downpour, heavy. It is nearly an hour into my journey and I am soaked to the bone. Not only that, but the thickness of rain makes it difficult to see ahead. Trees heavily shadowed, branches glistening in the rain, the forest appears more menacing in the storm. I surge on, but my hope is dwindling. In this downpour, I have a slim chance of finding the royal party. I make to turn back, only to find that the path is lost to me. Thunder crashes ahead, with the responding lightening casting everything in a awe-inspiring bright, brilliant white light.

I spin hopelessly, realizing that I've no idea which direction my home, the palace, or even the nearest boarder might be. I am quite certain I am lost.

**-XXX-**

The moment he rides past the first trees marking his wood, Thranduil feels himself slid into a state of relative ease. He is home. Home, among his elves and his trees. The closer and closer they get, the more the king relaxes. He's been looking forward to this for month; not that Rivendell was not lovely, but the Greenwood brings him a peace like no other place.

Cala is awaiting him, as well. Cala and her answer.

His eyes close at the thought. When she asked for time he had hesitated in giving it to her. But forcing would have likely resulted in an uncertain answer, or perhaps even the one he least desired. Hopefully a month would be enough to make her see….

All business about Rivendell had gone well. Elrond has proved to be, as ever, an excellent host. The elves of Greenwood received the finest accommodations. He'd enjoyed the beautifully manicured grounds and airy palace. The library was especially impressive. Their ties strengthened, Thranduil felt well enough about all matters of trade and diplomacy, even felt a sort of friendship kindled between him and Lord Elrond. He'd always had a great respect for the elf, despite his unusual bloodlines.

When they arrive at the palace stables, his manservant and several other aids are at the ready. Dismounting, he removes his cloak with a sweeping gesture, his circlet a moment later. Sighing, he hands them off to his manservant, turning to one of the lords nearby who informs him of the safe arrival of the earlier delegation. Another advisor steps up with news. After the second, Thranduil waves them off.

"I am weary. Tomorrow," he commands before turning to gesture for one of the pages. "Send a messenger to the Honeywell cottage at the Northeastern edge of the forest. I want the lady of the house summoned, here as soon as possible. Have them bring her a horse."

"My lord." The guardsman Ulain appears seemingly out of nowhere, bowing deeply. Thranduil remembers this man; he's married to Cala's dearest friend. A good guard and noble husband, if he recalls. The guardsman's expression is serious.

Thranduil regards him. "Speak, Ulain."

"Caladhiel left the village hours ago. She went seeking you. Someone mentioned you were traveling through the wood and she went forth to meet you."

The king frowns. "In this weather? She would surely not be so foolish?"

"She was desperate, my lord," the guardsman answers hesitantly. "We tried to keep her back, but she was insistent. Nothing would persuade her out of it."

"Well, where is she now?"

"We – we do not know," he confesses. "She has not yet returned. If she did not find you –"

His gut wrenches unpleasantly at the realization. Thranduil turns to the door, gazing out at the rain. It's coming down in icy sheets now, impossibly heavy. A torrent dense enough to give way to mudslides, flooding in lowlands… he shudders at the thought.

_"And Caladhiel is out there."_

Chilled, he knows what it is he must do. "Saddle a new horse," he orders one of the stable hands, turning to his manservant to say, "Pack me a new bag, one of oilskin. I'll need a fresh cloak and lantern. And three men to ride with me."

"I shall go," Ulain volunteers, solemn. "I will go down to the guard's quarters and rouse a few more men to accompany us."

"We leave within the quarter hour," Thranduil informs the room. "I intend to find her before nightfall. Meelth, come," he calls to his manservant. "Help me remove this armor. I shall need to ride light."

Twenty minutes later, he and a party of seven ride out for Caladhiel. They head west, the direction Ulain speculates upon. Thranduil is thankful for the guardsman's calm presence. He is an excellent second-in-command, thoughtful and quick-witted. When they return, Thranduil plans on heavily recommending a promotion to the chief guardsman.

They ride for nearly an hour with no sign of her. Then, at a fork in the path, one of the men spot something – a stray blue thread, hung on a waist-high branch.

"She was wearing a cloak of this color," Ulain says over the echo of rain. In the dense downpour, they can scarcely see one another, let alone hear.

"This was her, then."

The horses follow close together, slowly picking their way through the brush. Another thread is found, giving the king hope that they are on the right path. She must be near. _"Oh, please L_ú_thien…."_

Shortly after they reach the head of a deep ridge, outcropped with boulders and fallen trees, and, at its muddy bottom, a figure wrapped in blue, huddled against one damp trunk. With a cry, Thranduil dismounts, racing down the steep incline, stumbling every few feet until he reaches her. Ulain and another follow, the others staying up top. Stopping above her, the king reaches out, turning the blue figure so that she faces him.

A peaked and pale face is revealed past the hood of the muddied cloak. Her eyes are closed, mouth slightly parted. The king gently shakes her, beckoning her to wake with frantic whispers. Above, Ulain notes the flop-ish way in which the maiden's right arm falls to her side. Broken, likely.

When she does not wake, Thranduil presses his ear to her nose, hand to her wrist, searching for breath and pulse. To his relief, both are present.

He lifts her, carrying them both up the ridge with Ulain and the others guardsmen warily at his side. There is a small cheer about the group when they surface.

Mounting first, he has Cala lifted up to him, tucking her safely against his chest, wrapped in a new cloak. Before they ride he presses a kiss against her cold forehead, thanking all gods that be that she lived.

A little into their ride back to the palace, she stirs. A hand shifts against his chest. Peering down, he sees that she wakes, blinking slowly up at him. Drawing his horse to a halt, the king folds the maiden further into him.

"You foolish, foolish twit," he murmurs.

"Thranduil…" she manages hoarsely. "I was looking for you…"

"Do not speak. We'll be back shortly."

"My arm," she complains when he shifts her closer still. He never wishes to let her go.

"Broken," he tells her shortly. "Be still."

"You're impossibly domineering…that will be difficult in the marriage…."

His heart jumps into his chest at this, but he sternly looks down at her. "I'll have none of that teasing, Caladhiel."

She smiles sleepily. "No teasing. I came to tell you…."

"Sleep."

She obeys, likely out of a sheer weariness more than a desire to follow his orders. They ride on, reaching the palace just after nightfall. They are met by Fortesbrawn, who clucks over his silly former assistant. In her sleep, Cala whimpers when jostled from the horse. Thranduil grips her tightly against him. His expression is enough to send all in his path fleeing. They're familiar with that determined pull about his lip and foreboding cast in his crystalline eyes. The typically restrained king is feeling so many clashing emotions that his internal storm starting to seep at the cracks. He recognizes this, and attempts to reign himself in. Any further loss of control may very well result in the loss of his carefully composed illusion. In fact, he does break briefly when Cala starts to wake.

She is brought to the quarters nearest Thranduil's, where her arm is seen to by the healer. She wakes when it is set, screaming in pain. Beside the bed, the king sits in torment, his hands clasped too-too tightly - veins popping, skin pale. At the sound of her pained cries, the illusion flickers. Fortesbrawn looks up in horror to see the marred face of the Elfking grimacing. The healer watches his king stroke the injured young elf's dark gold locks that lay upon the pillow with one ruined hand. Soon after, she falls back asleep, whimpering, holding the new cast to her chest. The king does not leave her side all night, recalling a time not so long ago when she slept in the chair beside his bed for nights on end. Hopefully, Cala would wake with fewer physical reminders of this evening than he had. They'd been lucky - of all the things she could've met with in the forest, a hillside and the resulting broken arm were hardly anything. Fortesbrawn leaves them be somewhere around dawn, slipping out quietly. The silent king says nothing, eyes glued to the sleeping elf on the bed.

**-XXX-**

**I probably should've played out the will-she/won't-she aspect a little more, but we've got a lot of story to get through people!**

**Does anyone have any ideas for a cover? I'm a little stuck. i've considered doing something honeycomb-bee related. Thoughts?**

**Reviews would be grand, as always. I truly appreciate them, and I'd love to get your reaction on this particular chapter.**


	12. Chapter 12

**Apologies for the delay! Vacation has been great so far! **

**Hopefully the fluffy-wuffy dramatic angsty romance of the last chapter was enough to swell your heart (or cause you to puke up your guts, that lovey-dovey business being so very sacrine). I quite liked it. But things are not 100 percent resolved, as we shall soon see. Some persons are too pig-headed….**

**I've been utterly thrilled with the feedback for the last two chapters. I'll be replying to everyone as soon as things settle down (ha, like that will be anytime too soon), but in the mean time thank you thank you thank you! **

**Enjoy! **

**-XXX-**

I wake slowly on a bed much softer than I am used to, face buried in a pillow that does not smell of lavender and lye soap, but of cedar and cinnamon. The light isn't that of a newly breaking dawn, but dim and warm, cast off from a fire across the room. There are no windows. Overall, I feel fine, save for a stiffness in my arm. For a moment I attempt to discern where, exactly, I am. The canopy above me – a heavy brocade – is familiar. But only one place in the Greenwood would have such fine fabrics….With a sharp breathe, I sit up, breath gasping. A hand reaches for me, pushing my back down and pulling up the covers.

"Quiet, girl," Fortesbrawn warns me. I must have been so still in initially waking that he'd not realized I'd reached consciousness. "You'll upset your cast."

Sinking back onto the pillow, I lift my broken arm. "Did I do this?"

"Yes, you did, you mighty fool. What were you doing, running out there on your own in the midst of a storm?" he demands. Peering at my forehead, he tsks. "You'll have quite a bruise there."

"It was not raining when I left," I argue feebly.

The healer sighs. "Twit."

He fusses over me for several more minutes, examining me, asking me how I feel. In the end we both conclude that my arm is properly broken, I had a slight concussion, along with a multitude of scrapes and bruises, though overall I am quite well. After a pain-relieving draught, Fortesbrawn lectures me on the foolishness of my venture. Following this he is content enough to leave me.

"Why am I here?" I ask softly as Fortesbrawn packs up his bag.

"Why don't you ask him," he grunts, nodding to the fire.

To my surprise, a tall figures stands beside the fire, just left to mouth of flame, arm resting on the mantle. He has been so silent and so still my eyes could not make him out in the dimness. I start when Thranduil shifts, looking back at me. Grey eyes are as hard as crystals. When I say nothing, he turns back to the flame, not moving again until Fortesbrawn leaves with a bow and a murmur. When the door is closed, he speaks.

"I shall not hold you to what you said in your delirious state," he says quietly, face-half shadowed. "I do not expect you to know what you were saying. Then again, everything you did yesterday speaks of madness, so maybe I ought to take that into consideration."

I blink. "My lord?"

He drifts forward, stopping at the end of the bed. Once level with the bedpost, he halts, as if not daring to come any nearer. "When I found you, you said you would marry me. I won't hold you to it, you are -"

I reach for him. Thranduil eyes my extended fingers warily. With caution, he moves to meet me, taking up my hand. His eyes are heavy, impassive.

"I so stupidly went into the woods so find you. To tell you yes, Thranduil."

"Yes?" Eyes wide, he freezes. "Yes?"

"Yes," I repeat slowly. "Yes, Thranduil, I say yes."

His hands tighten dangerously against mine, crushing my fingers, knuckles whitening. "Do not play with me, Cala, I cannot take it."

"Then listen, you goose."

Slowly, he sinks onto the mattress, still holding my hand in his. Bowing his head, he seems to fall into a sort of delirious daze. I lean forward, pressing my forehead against his, closing my eyes. We sit like that, silent, breathing together for an age. We hold one another's hands, extending up the arms, to the shoulders, until we're simply intertwined, resting together. When we are roused, the fire is low.

"I did not dare hope," he breathes. "You did not leave me the heart for much when we last spoke."

"You did not give me enough to suspect your regard," I counter. "I was surprise. Your feelings – your feeling were not unwelcome. Merely unexpected."

"When did you decide?"

"It took me some time," I admit. "But once I knew of my feelings, they were unshakeable. I knew. And after that, I could not wait for you to come back. I almost wrote, but then I thought of what we'd agreed upon."

"So you waited until you hear of my return, then rush into the forest to throw to your death?" His brows rise. We shift so that I sit against him, propped up on his chest and shoulders as he stretches out against the mattress. Our arms lay parallel, Thranduil's topping mine, our fingers laced – awkwardly, with my right hand in its cast. It's a very un-kingly position. Neither of us seems to mind.

"I did not throw myself off of anything!" I say, indigently. "I fell. Tripped, actually. It was very misty."

"Of course." A solemner note enters his tone. "You may have very well died."

"And I did not!"

"No, thank Lúthien," Thranduil murmurs into my hair. He pushes back a few stray locks to kiss my temple. "I don't know what I might do with myself had you gone." Something stills him suddenly. As soon as the words leave his mouth, the king freezes abruptly. I shift to peer up at him. He simultaneously tightens his arms around me.

"What is it?" I demand.

His eyes are glazed, reflective in some realization that has utterly caught him. Starting, he snaps his gaze back down at me. "Nothing," he assures me, voice distant. "I merely…nothing. You ought to sleep. I am sure you are tired."

"I slept for an age, I'm sure. Tell me of Rivendell."

I do not believe for an instant that it is "nothing." Something akin to horror had flickered in his gaze when he had looked down at me. I cannot guess what bothers him so, but I know better than to push it – he will shut down. So I change the subject. Still, Thranduil hesitates before be begins to tell me of his journey.

**-XXX-**

Word gets around to the wood-elves too quickly for my liking. Within less than a week I find that stare and whispers follow me anytime I venture out. In my time spent in the royal apartments (three days, as Fortesbrawn was insistent that he be allowed to monitor my concussion, then following that Thranduil make me stay, being under the impression that I cannot handle myself with only one hand. On the morning of the forth day I had met him at breakfast, dressed with a horse waiting saddled for me in the stables. He was not pleased) the news had gotten out, first to the staff, then to the general public.

Some are curious, others confused, a certain number disturbed and angered. The nobles are in quite an uproar. Many lords with daughters they'd been aiming to marry off are especially enraged. There are meetings of his council, private sessions between the king, his advisors, and a mixture of unhappy nobles. Thranduil tries to keep it from me, but it's not to be avoided – if the people know, I know.

I try my best to go about my business as usual. As it's only a betrothal, and it is still early on, I've not made any plans to change my life whatsoever. I still live in my cottage at the edge of the Greenwood. I still raise bees and visit the village only a few times a week. Perhaps that's what is more infuriating to some people – I am not acting as though anything has changed. Because, well, nothing has really altered. I've simply agreed to join my life with another at some unspecified future date. I don't wish to make must of it.

Unfortunately, what I wish isn't much regarded. Beriana and Arhiel burst in upon me the day after I return to my cottage, both high-spirited and wary of what they had heard.

"Is it true?" Beriana cries when she pushes past me to come inside. "They're all saying in the village – but is it at all true?"

Confused, I hug Arhiel before shutting the door. "Hello to you as well. What is or isn't true?"

"You and the king," Beriana asks in a hushed tone, as though fearing someone might hear her.

I blink. "Oh. Well. Yes."

She squeals. Arhiel looks equally aghast.

"I knew it! Oh, I knew, that first night at the spring festival!"

"That was nearly twelve years ago, Beriana," I say with a laugh. "Of course he hasn't – I mean, this is very new. I think."

Arhiel sits, looking pale. "I cannot believe it. Not to say that you are not undeserving of his affections," she adds quickly. "But this is very unexpected. Caladhiel, did you know?"

"Of his regard? Not entirely, no –"

"When is the wedding?" Beriana demands suddenly, leaning over the table on her fists.

Taken aback, I say, "I don't know. We haven't really talked about it. In a few years, perhaps?"

"Years?" Beriana appears horrified.

"Your engagement was years long," I say defensively.

"Yes, but he's the king."

"I do not see how that should make a difference," Arhiel says. She moves to sit in the nearest armchair. "If anything, I think a long engagement would be preferable. Let people have time to get used to the idea. It is quite the surprise."

"No, don't you see? The longer the wait, the more they'll push other options onto him. The sooner the better. They're already holding private audiences with him left and right in an attempt to talk him out of it."

"I have no doubt he shall turn them all down," I assure her calmly.

Frustrated, Beriana rolls her eyes. "You are acting as though there is nothing to be worried about! You do not even seem concerned, Cala!"

"Because I am not," I say simply. "Thranduil will not be persuaded. And if he is…then I would not wish to marry someone with so weak a will."

Arhiel smiles. "A good resolution, my love." Turning to her daughter, she swats her arm. "Do not worry so. Our Cala knows what she is doing."

I can tell my Beriana's expression that she does not quite agree. But she lets it pass, and we settle in for a few hours of gossip.

**-XXX-**

A month after Thranduil's return, we meet in the forest in the middle of the night. This is nothing new to us – with the court in an uproar and both of our every moves monitored, we've taken to meeting in private as often as we can. Not only to simply see each other, but there is quite a lot of planning to be done too, namely, for our wedding. We've determined that a three-year engagement seems to be in order. It's a good amount of time for people to get used to the idea, to integrate me more fully into court – something I am far from excited about. But it's a necessary sacrifice for binding my life to his.

Tonight, however, we're meeting simply to visit for a time. There is a clearing between my cottage and the doors of his palace, where the moon and stars look down upon a stretch of river, including a waterfall. It's a secluded, quiet place, hidden by thick trees and ivy-draped stones that act almost as walls. The perfect place to be alone for a time.

I arrive first, though Thranduil follows shortly after. He immediately sweeps me up in his arms for a hard kiss, lips hungrily working against mine, hands curling around my waist and the small of my back to draw me nearer and nearer. It's been a long week, with our only relief being a few stolen moments here and there. When heat begins to curl deliciously against the pit of my stomach, I pull back, exposing my neck for more kisses. He hisses in pleasure, and moves his hands upwards to caress my sides with long, silken strokes. I tremble against him as the heat migrates.

After several more moments, we part, knowing that, should we continue, we'd be going further than either of us desired at the moment. We sit along the waters edge, admiring the sparkling stars and moon above. Thranduil's fingers paint lazy circles against the flesh of my arm while I lay between his legs, head resting against his chest. We are perfectly content. Or, so I think.

"Cala," he begins, waking me from the reverie.

"Mmm?"

"I have been thinking lately…."

I nuzzle his neck, smiling. "That's quite unusual for you, eh?"

His arms tighten. "I have been thinking of your decision," he says quietly. His tone leaves me no doubt as to what decision he is referring to. I turn in his arms so that I might look at his face.

"What of it?" I ask cautiously.

He sighs. "I want you to make a choice. But not just any choice, Cala. I want you to choose for me."

"You…want me to choose an immortal life?"

Pulling away, I sit up, drawing away. Thranduil's hands find mine, squeezing. "I want you to choose _me. _An immortal life with me, _nín gûr."_

All falls to silence. One can hear the flick of a tiny bug, every motion of every branch within a mile radius. Thranduil's heart beating. And mine, for that matter. I hesitate long and hard before answering.

"You know what you are asking me to do?"

He nods, hands tightening. "Please. Cala. I cannot bear to think of living without you. How could I or the Greenwood go on without her queen? Please, Cala. For me."

He is asking so much of me. Is it not enough that I give up my solitude to rule a nation of peoples by his side. Elves who are wary of me, no less? Must I too make that choice so rashly?

But Thranduil has a point. Should I chose a mortal existence, I may leave him alone on the throne. While the kings and queens of Men and other mortal races go through monarchs quickly, elves simply do not. In marrying the King of the Greenwood, I am signing a contract to rule by his side, to help raise heirs, to guide the forest…dying would very well break that contract.

Besides that, I wish to make him happy. More than anything, I think.

Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and nod. "Yes…then. Yes. I shall consent to an…immortal life."

The king leans forward to kiss me instantly, relief and pleasure vibrating throughout his person. It is a though a weight has been lifted from him. Holding my face in his hands, Thranduil looks down upon me. "Thank you," he breathes. "Oh, my Cala. All I could ask from you…."

Though I do not feel entirely settled in my decision, I am pleased that he is happy. He shows me his pleasure with long kisses that bring the heat back into my bones, a heat that brings me to pulling him on top of me, coaxing his touches upon me until I reach a state of relief myself. Once parted, I lay on the grass with Thranduil's head upon my breastbone, together breathing evenly. We drift into a doze, only to wake when the sun begins to peak nervously over the horizon with a pink-gold light. We linger for a few moments, foreheads pressed together, hands intertwined, then we leave the clearing – me, towards my cottage, the king, for the palace of Greenwood.

**-XXX-**

** Was that a dick move, or what? Give me your thoughts! **

**As always, thank you for reading, and please take some time to review! **


	13. Chapter 13

**Okay, from about this point on, time is going to f-l-y. We're going to skip decades and centuries here, my friends. If you'd like an idea of what's happening on the timeline of Arda, I could my personal plot timeline in the next chapter, then add it to every update? Anyways, just be aware that there will be some significant leaps over time following this chapter. **

**Thank you all for the suggestions for a cover! I need to get cracking on making one! **

**And, a big thank you to all of my lovely reviewers and followers. I truly appreciate the support. Y'all are golden.**

**Here's a longer chapter! **

**-XXX-**

Three years seem to fly. I am introduced to the nobles of the court slowly. Most everyone is civil enough – though I often spy less-kind eyes placed upon me. My closeness to Thranduil has unsettled some. We ignore them as best we can.

I am more welcome among the common folk. Most seem to think that I am an example of what can be achieved by commoners. I can scarcely entered the market with being bombarded with greetings. It's far preferable than my interaction with those of the court of Greenwood. The Sidarian don't see me as much more than a social-ladder-climbing Silvan forest elf. And worse yet – a half-elven. While some of the more common citizens hold reservations against me for that, many could care less.

By the time our wedding nears, most have at least accepted us. Not necessarily like, but they're calm enough to have come to terms with the fact that their king will be marrying a mostly-common half-elven beekeeper. The glares I receive in court functions have lessened, and I'm even on small-talk terms with some of the snobbier ladies. It's slow progress, but not terribly slow in the extended life of a n elf.

I've been installed in the palace for six months when the date arrives – not necessarily by choice. Thrandil had insisted. I loathe to remove myself from the solitude of the forest, but he made a compelling argument.

"I will not be one of those couples that reside in separate apartments or rooms, let alone several miles apart," he told me sternly one evening as we sit in the same courtyard in which he found me five years ago, waiting upon Fortesbrawn. "And it will not do to have the king living in a cottage at the edge of his kingdom. You must move, my love."

I was not pleased, but I understood the necessity. My bees were moved to be a little closer, to the tops of the caverns, but I still retained ownership over the land. I let Beriana know that should she and Ulain were to consider moving further into the wood, it would be available to them – they are currently considering having a second child, much to Kalock's delight, and the extra space would suit them well.

When the morning comes, I wake slowly, laying in bed far longer than I should, letting the light stream through my windows. It is my last day in these rooms – tomorrow, I would be installed in Thranduil's suite. He had more windows, which was nice, and a larger bathroom. Still, the thought of this being my last night alone –

I rose when a maid came to fetch me, bringing with her a tray of breakfast goods. After propping up my pillows, she leaves me to eat, selecting a grey day dress from the wardrobe. I approve with a nod. After I finish eating, she helps me dress, then walks with me to the courtyard, where I sit reading until Beriana and Arhiel find me. Ber sits beside me, while Arhiel holds a squirming Kalock against her hip.

"Today is the day!" Beriana enthuses, knocking her shoulders against mine playfully. "You're finally doing it!"

"I am not so far behind you," I say defensively. "Only six years after you and Ulain."

"Seven long years," she reminds me, correcting my math. "And it took Thranduil far longer to court you. But he finally got some sense into his thick, kingly skull. Oh, I knew the first night, Cala. The way he looked at you…." She sighs. "It was magic!"

I roll my eyes heavily, but let her continue on with her fluff-filled rendition of how I met "my beloved," as Beriana puts it. Several times I see her mother disguise a chuckle or bark of laughter with a well-timed yawn or cough.

After a light lunch, I am dragged to Arhiel's house to prepare. It's funny, getting ready in the place where, nearly fifteen years ago, I'd been fussed over in an effort to impress the court in the spring festivals. The very festival where I'd first encountered Thranduil. I feel as though things have come to full circle. I ponder as I soak in the tub, eyes closed, letting the warm water carry me away. When I wake it's to Beriana washing my hair with perfumed oils, combing with a fine-tooth deer bone comb.

When I exit, I'm smothered with more oils to moisturize my skin, giving me a "youthful glow." After this, I'm given my undergarments and instructed to dress in my first layer. By then it's mid-afternoon, a mere four hours from sunset. I nervously eye the skyline beyond the window of Beriana's former bedroom. _"Soon…."_

As Arhiel begins arranging my hair, I think of Thranduil, wondering what he's doing. He's likely not enduring the fuss that I am. If anything, he's probably alone, save for a manservant, dressing in his nicest, yet greatly subtle, robes. Last week he came to me inquiring as to what he ought to wear. Amused, I told him that something simple would do quite fine – my own dress is nothing extravagant. I'm only wearing jewelry at the urging of Thranduil and Beriana, who teamed up to insist upon a necklace and a few rings.

Arhiel pauses in her combing, sliding a hand down to hold mine. Eyes finding mine in the mirror, she asks gently. "Are you ready, _mell?"_

_ "No. No. Never ready. I could never be ready for this." _

Instead, I swallow and say lowly, "I think so."

The sky has mellowed to a dusky purple, and the faintest pinpricks of stars can be seen between the leaves. Night is coming. The ceremony is upon us. I turn my eyes from the window, refusing to look at my own reflection in the mirror, staring instead at my lap, where my hands twist. I can feel Arhiel twisting a few locks of my hair, inserting a pearl-tipped comb that scrapes my scalp and holds the form in place.

From the bed, Beriana sighs dreamily. "You look beautiful."

"I don't even have my dress on yet." In fact, it's laying beside her – a long grey-white thing, embroidered with a dark silvery-green pattern of ivy, clusters of pearls along every so often, making for luminous dew-drops upon the threaded leaves. The material is loose against my form, but sheer enough to show my figure off nicely.

"Doesn't matter," she replies softly. "You still look lovely."

Arhiel makes a small noise. I look up in the mirror to see that her eyes are red-rimmed, and quickly take up her hands, squeezing them and smiling as best I can.

"You should get dressed. It'll be less than an hour before we meet them –"

Slowly, she and Beriana help me slide on the gown. Once it is fully laced, I turn to their full-length mirror to examine myself. I can hardly recognize myself in the reflection.

I'm paler than usual, likely due to nerves. Hair flows loosely around my shoulders, saved for a few pieces pulled back from my face, secured by the combs. The dress, while loose, gives me a fluid, shapely silhouette. With a wide neckline, it sits low on the edges of my shoulders, revealing the crest of skin that is my shoulder, along with my collarbone and throat. I can practically see my pulse fluttering in my neck. My hands fold against my stomach as I regard myself, in the wide eyes of the girl in the mirror, I can finally recognize my reflection.

"How do you feel?"

I can scarcely whisper, not taking my eyes from the glass. "I – I feel a little sick," I admit.

Arhiel tearfully chuckles. "That is fairly normal, I'm afraid. Come, dear, your slippers, then we must haste."

I slide my feet into the satin slippers that she removes from the bed, turning my back on my reflection. Once that is done, Beriana suddenly jumps up from where she'd been sitting at the vanity, scrambling for the wardrobe. After several minutes of digging, she emerges with a finely carved little rosewood box.

"I nearly forgot!" She thrusts the box forward, declaring, "He asked me to give these to you."

No need to ask who. Thranduil's seal marks the top of the box – a stag's antler, arching gracefully, with a maple leaf as a background. Only, besides this, there is an addition – a small bee, perched on the arch of the antler. I smile, letting my fingers trace the engraved image. "Beautiful."

"Open it," Beriana urges.

I do, finding it contains a strand of river pearls, set off by a single, tear-shaped diamond in the center. I gasp – it's by far the most precious thing I've ever held. Thranduil is known for his love of the white crystal stones. That he would so freely give me one….

But there is more; a pair of earrings are nestled in the bottom of the box, each with a base of a pearl and drop of a diamond dangling from them. I am too stunned to put them on, so Beriana steps in to help me. As she loops the necklace around my neck twice, she examines the stone.

"He has fine taste, your king." She grins.

"This is too much," I murmur. "I cannot –"

"You can," Beriana interrupts. "You're to be Queen. Queens wear such thinks as jewels."

From the doorway, Arhiel nods. "It is quite the gift. But appropriate, Cala."

I look down at the diamond, holding it and a few pearls pooled in my hand. It winks up at me. I can understand why Thranduil loves them so. _"Stones of pure white starlight," _he described them once in a hushed whisper as we trailed along the treasure hall. Enchanted, I do not look away for several moments, until Arhiel straightens, pushing away from the door to start leading us downstairs, where Dorith waits. He, along with Beriana, Kalok, and Arhiel, will all be escorting me to the ceremony. Ulain is already there with Thranduil, acting as a friend and guardsman. There is to be a sizeable crowd at the reception following the ceremony, so he is strategizing for crowd control.

Once downstairs, Kalock beings reaching for us. "Mama! Cal!" he demands. Despite being 5, he insists on calling me "Cal." It's adorable, really.

I move to pick him up, but Beriana steps between. "You'll muss your dress," she scolds. Instead, I smooth his brown hair. He hands me a small bouquet of clover.

"For luck," he whispers.

I hope I shall not need it, but thank him, and press it into my bigger bouquet.

Dorith opens the door. "The last bit of light is fading, ladies," he says. "We should set out."

All turn to me. Feeling myself pale further, I nod, silent. We step outside. There is a small party awaiting us – guards and a few select nobles to act as my escorts. I pick up my train, telling Beriana that she can carry once we're closer. No need now, when we've got nearly ten minutes to walk.

To my surprise, by the time we reach the green, there is a crowd. Elves line either side of the street, eagerly pressing forward. Waiting. Waiting, I realize, feeling fainter still, for me. I straighten automatically, very aware of the eyes upon me. Beriana creeps forward. "Should I not carry your train now, Cala?"

I shake my head, whispering back, "I'm not here to put on a show. Come on, we're nearly there."

"There" being the alter above the palace. At the top of the cavern, there is a strange little circle of trees, making for a clean clearing in which important ceremonies are held – funerals, christenings, seasonal worships, and weddings. We approaching, climbing up the slight incline. Here Dorith and Arhiel take the lead with a few guards ahead and a few behind us. Here Beriana insists on taking up my train. Kal walks beside her, eyes wide.

We reach the top of the hill, passing through the trees to finally break through to the clearing. Without the heavy leaves overhead, it's quite light. I blink, surprised to see over seventy-five assorted elves seated before the rise of stone that makes up the alter. On our approach, many turn in their seats to peer at us. Or, more specifically, me. I keep my gaze down, until I can bear it no longer, and tilt my head up to the alter.

Thranduil stands before the table of stone, his grey-blue eye solidly on me. Unwavering. When my gaze meets his, the corners crinkle just a little. We cannot look away, locked on to one another. I nearly stumble, I am so focused on him. He smiles slyly when my gait hitches briefly.

He wears a grey overcoat that falls just past his ankles, silver threads sparkling throughout from a delicate pattern of vines and leaves, mimicking the ivy found in my dress. His legging are a darker shade of grey, charcoal, and his boots a soft black. The crown he's selected is made of thin, smoky branches with pewter bark, tender green spring leaves collected along the base. Handsome as ever, the sight of him makes my heart clench, then rest. Seeing him – Thranduil, just as collected he ever is – calms me. I'm marrying him, and in a sense, the kingdom, but firstly, _him._

Suddenly, I'm level with the king. I find that I cannot breath. Face-to-face, I can see beyond his impassive exterior; he's trembling slightly. With energy or nerves I do not know. Wordlessly, I extend one hand a few inches. He grasps it automatically, squeezing so tight I nearly squeak. The officiator approaches from where he stands on the second level of the dais. And it begins.

Overall, the exchange of vows takes a little over thirty minutes. All the while, Thranduil has eyes for me – we both half-face the officiator, though we rarely look away for one another. When I peer at the crowd gathered to watch us, I can pick out a few nobles. Lord Elrond is easy to pick out near the front, his arm tucked with a willowy blonde creature. His regal bearing and dark eyes are precisely what people had described them to be. Beside the woman, Celebrian, is a tall man with similar fair hair, and beside him a woman who greatly resembles Lord Elrond's bride – Celeborn and Galadriel.

Finally, the words are exchanged. We both peer up at the stars, which shine down upon us with joy. Their blessing upon us, we are left to look at one another. A smile pulls at the edge of his mouth. I step closer, trembling as I rise on tip-toe to kiss him. Hands slide to my waist, pulling me closer, flush with him. I cup his face, stroking it when we part. After a beat, we turn to the group watching us. Low applause greets us.

We drift indoors to the great hall, where Thranduil and I are seated at the high table. We eat, holding a court of well-wishers who approach to greet us and offer their best hopes for our marriage. Gracious, we accept their kind words – and their gifts.

"Your highnesses," Thranduil greets Celeborn and Galadriel when they float towards us. "We are blessed to have you join us on this day."

"And you honor us with your inclusion." Lady Galadriel bows her head, her blue eyes trained on me. "We are happy to make the acquaintance of your bride. Well-met, Queen Calahdriel."

I incline my head. "Your ladyship. It is my honor."

"I have heard you are quiet skilled with bees, your majesty," Celeborn speaks then. His eyes are blankly blue. I cannot read them.

"Yes," I reply shyly. "I've raised hives my whole life. The cakes being served are sweetened with my pear honey."

"They are delightful. We should like to take a few jars back with us to Lothlorien."

"It shall be done," I assure them. "Thank you for joining us."

Elrond and Celebrian approach next. Celebrian is just as shy as I am, and clings to her husband's arm. He keeps one hand resting on hers. They are very much in love.

The half-elven lord seems quite keen on me, one of a few half-elven that has reached nobility. I feel a sort of kinship to him, and wish to, at some point, speak with him more. I tell him so, inviting him and his wife to dine with us before they return to Rivendell.

Cirdan, the shipwight approaches with his wife. His beard is impeccably groomed. He's a little less warm than the elves of Lorien, but his eyes are alight with the same curiosity – all are interested in discerning who, exactly, I am.

Several more elves of ranking nobility come to share their regards and congratulations. We accept each graciously. By the time we've found a lull, I am exhausted.

After the food comes the dancing. Removing ourselves from the high table, my husband and I open with the first dance. I'm nervous, but the king draws my gaze to him. I forget that we're being watched by well over a hundred people. My head rests on his shoulder as we sway slowly in time with the music of flutes and lyres. Once the final notes fade, Thranduil leads me from the center floor.

We mingle, meeting more guests. I'm an introduced to many nobles, both of our woods and surrounding realms. The kings of Rohan and Dale join us, as well as a few of the dwarf kings. Few seem to care that I was not born of their standing, but the few that do make themselves clear. They're not rude about it, necessarily, but there is a particular manner in which their eyes drag across me, as though I am under a magnifying glass.

The night comes to a close somewhere around one in the morning. The king and I slip out a little early, taking a few twisting passages to get us unseen to the doors of his apartments. Most of my things will have been moved in this afternoon. I can feel my heart flutter as Thranduil opens the door, pulling me in after him. Once inside, he gathers me in his arms, lightly brushing his lips to mine. I respond automatically, leaning up to better meet him. Trembling, I twisting my fingers in his hair, feeling the sharp edges of his crown. When I stroke the tips of his ears, the king makes a slight groaning sound. I pull back, only to have him catch my wrists.

"I've waited an age to have you," he breathes. The grey eyes have darkened slightly, turning liquid.

A warmth grows in my stomach. With a slight tremor, I step forward, lightly stroking the length of his face. He closes his eyes. Gently, I lift the crown from his head, setting it on the nearest surface, which happens to be a small bar table. Once the weight is removed from his head, Thranduil's eyes open again. Hands go to my waist, clenching softly. The heat rises and spreads within me. Lips brush mine again, slower this time. Teasing. Tempting. Fingers drift against my spine, torturously unbuttoning my dress. When his lips drift to my jaw, I gasp audibly.

**-XXX-**

The sound of her surprise and pleasure only sends more heat into his blood. Thranduil pauses to look at his wife, lips pursing in amusement. She tilts her head back, exposing her throat to him. He can see her pulse flutter, and he has the sudden desire to taste it. He places an open-mouth kiss on the tender flesh. Another light sound follows. _"Madness."_

He backs her on to the bed, pushing down the shoulder of her gown, nuzzling the newly exposed skin. She turns against him, fingers working on the clasps of his jacket. Once she has removed it, her hands travel beneath the hem of his white tunic, skimming his stomach and chest with no limit of wonder. His breath catches when her nails brush his nipples. With a low chuckle, the king leans forward, lowering her to the mattress. He tugs down the remainder of her dress, exposing the shift beneath. Through the thin linen, he cups a breast, returning the favor. Cala breathed out a long sigh, arching against him….

He teased her for an age before finally giving her release. When they've finished, Cala clings to him, sleepily cuddling his chest. They breathe in time, with Thranduil facing upwards, peering into the darkness the canopy of his bed offers. He feels his wife slip effortlessly into sleep, and he tightens his arms by a fraction. Turning his head, he buries his face in her hair, inhaling the scent of gardenia, peony, and honey.

There is no doubt he was he first to touch her. He's pleased to know that in her several hundred years Cala has never been touched by another in the way he's caressed her. She is wholly his and his alone.

"_Wife." _He hadn't thought he would ever be so very pleased by the ownership of the word. This hadn't been the partner he'd imagined in his youth, the silent slip of a thing that was to be selected by his father and his advisors. Cala was something of that – but it was as though what he thought he wanted was a pencil-drawn figure, two-dimensional and flat. Cala is in full color, robust and whole.

With a happy sigh, the king pulls her closer still, inhaling. Pleased, weary, and all too ready to fall asleep next to his wife, Thranduil lets the darkness carry him away into warmth and peace.

**-XXX-**

**Did not get a huge response to the last post, so reviews would be grand…eh?**

**Was the wedding believable? I couldn't find anything referencing Elven weddings, so I went with what I thought might work.**

**I know the lemons weren't too lemon-y, but I hesitate in making anything too smutty on here. Paranoia, I think. **

**There may be a delay in releasing the next chapters over the coming two weeks. I've got this job that'll be claiming a lot of time, though everything up to chapter 20 is written or at least partially written, so it's just a matter of adding the author's note and editing. **

**Please review! **


	14. Chapter 14

**Keeper 14**

**Camp has kept me insanely busy! This has had basically no editing since I read it two weeks ago, but I'll definitely try to come back to it!**

**-XXX-**

It takes us a while to grow used to the fact that we are married. Despite our closeness before the wedding, the reality of being joined to someone – seeing them day-in and day-out, always having them at arm's length – is something we took some time learning how to deal with. By the time seven or so years have passed, we are contented. I love waking up every morn in Thranduil's arms and going to sleep every night with him beside me.

By second year, it starts to feel foreign to spend my days without him when he travels for diplomatic duties. He is never gone for more than a week or two – nothing like the whole month of separation we beared before our engagement. I don't know if he's simply shortened any trips that might require that time commitment, or if none came up, but I did not mind.

Thranduil slowly begins introducing me to the political duties of my Queenship of the Greenwood. I had not thought I would want to learn how to rule. I was not, upon our marriage, too eager to be queen. But I find, in time, that I like running the palace, guiding the realm, acting as Thranduil's second. Not all of the nobility has accepted me, true, but most of the Silvan have welcomed me with open arms. They bring their problems to me, greet me when I am among them, and gift me frequently with small things - fresh eggs, flowers, et cetera. I think in some ways, I soften the cold appearance of Thranduil. He's more well-loved than before, though his capacity for kindness and fair nature has not altered – it's simply become more apparent.

"You are my best side," he tells me while we sit side-by-side on matching thrones, holding court to hear grievances.

I simply squeeze his hand, smiling softly.

In our eight hundred and eighty-seventh year of marriage, I find that I am pregnant. I share the news with Thranduil tearfully one afternoon in the courtyard, and we cry together – overjoyed. We had not been trying, but the news is well-met, regardless. We're considered children for well over three hundred years I immediately begin planning for a nursery.

As the months pass and my stomach swells. Fortesbrawn visits me daily – a little excessive though it's by Thranduil's orders. Everything seems to be going well on my seventh month. I am a little moody, but overall quite happy. There's nothing, I find, quite like being pregnant. It's slightly uncomfortable, yet I feel very…glow-y. Strangely energized.

Thranduil cannot keep his hands from my abdomen. When we are together, he is always caressing the bump, gently feeling the swollen flesh. And oh, the baby never kicks as hard as it does when its father is about.

"What do you think they shall be?" Thranduil asks lazily one afternoon. We're taken the day off to spend time in our clearing, spreading out blankets and pillows to lounge upon. I sit between his legs, head on his chest.

"Hmmm, I don't know."

"Really? I've heard often mothers can sense what their babies might be."

I put a hand to my stomach. "Perhaps a boy. A strong, mischievous little boy."

"How can you tell?" His hand goes on top of mine.

"I don't know, I just do. Just a feeling."

Thranduil laces his fingers with mine. "Whatever it shall be, I am excited."

I smile craning my neck to kiss him. Before his lips touch mine, I whisper back, "Me too."

**-XXX-**

It is only a week or so after this that we are given a surprise visitor to our court. The Grey Wizard has graced the Greenwood with his presence. And, he's requested an audience. We both remember why the wizard last came to these words, and nervously await his entrance into our hall. Gandalf is not friendly enough with us to come by simply for a social visit. He has some kind of news.

We meet him, seated together, in the cavernous hall. With his staff and pointed hat, the wizard looks nearly comical as he approaches our dais. Once at the foot of the stone, he bows deeply.

"Your highnesses," he says. A slight smile tugs at the old man's lips. His hands go to his staff as he waits for us.

"_Mithrandir_," my husband replies. "We welcome you to our wood. My wife and I are both glad to see you – it has been an age."

"Nearly," the wizard agrees. "I am equally pleased to see you and wife. Word of your union reached me while I was in Dale. I was glad to hear of it – I knew both of your parents well, I have no doubt that they smile to see their houses united. I know they would also be pleased to see a child has come so quickly out of the union."

"Thank you," I say softly. Thranduil's hand finds mine. I glance at him, smiling gently.

"What brings you to our Greenwood, Gandalf? I wouldn't think you would simply be passing through?"

"You are right, I come with news." The wizard straightens. "There comes, from the kingdom of Gondor and Arnor, well-wishing for your coming child. Anticipate gifts within the next month."

The king and I exchange a glance. "We thank you," I say before Thranduil can speak – his brow has furrowed. "And, should you be near, thank Valadil and Meneldil on our behalf. Would you wish to join us for dinner, Gandalf? We will be more than happy to keep you for the night."

"That would be delightful…."

At an intimate dinner, I sit beside the wizard. I must be especially careful with my fork, as my bump makes it difficult to sit near the table, making the journey between the plate and my mouth quite long. The wizard amusedly watches me navigate the utensils. My husband is speaking to Fortesbrawn, who we invited to meet Gandalf. At the wizard's chuckle, Thranduil glances my way. Then, he too smiles.

"When are you anticipating the child?"

"Oh," I say, poking a piece of deer. "In about two months, I think. Though, he's more than ready to come." I lay a hand on the bump. "He's keen on kicking."

"He?" The wizard's thick grey brows rise. "You think it to be a boy?"

I color slightly – another symptom of pregnancy. "We don't know for sure, of course. But I just _feel _it, you know?"

Gandalf smiles. "I think I do, yes. May I -?" He gestures to my stomach.

"Yes."

The wrinkled hands spread out against my swollen flesh. I can feel the baby kick suddenly, stretching. If the wizard's hands were not in the way, I am certain we would see tiny bumps of fingers skimming across the surface of my stomach.

"This one has great strength," Gandalf laughs. "He's certain got a lot of energy, my lady. You're going to have quite an energetic son."

I beam. "I think so, yes."

After dinner, we retire to bed. Thranduil dresses in his night robes while I lounge on one of the armchairs, reading. Once he is done he joins me, shifting so that I am sitting on his lap, novel in hand. His lips go to the back of my ear, breath tickling mercilessly. I fidget, making noising to indicate that he should stop. So instead, he beings playing with my hair. After several minutes of enduring the distractions, I turn on him, eyes glinting.

"I am trying to read." I growl.

"_Mithrandir_ thinks we are going to have a boy?"

I blink. "What?"

"I half-heard you," he says. "The wizard believes that we're going to have a boy?"

"I suppose," I say. "Why –"

He cuts me off with a kiss. My hands drift to the back of his neck, fingers twining in his hair. Pulling back briefly, the king grins. "Two months."

"Two months," I agree, pulling him back, forehead resting against his. We're both smiling like idiots, and begin laughing together. I lean back to better look at him.

"I am glad I married you," I sigh.

His brows rise. "That is good to hear. Near nine hundred years in, it would be a little late for regrets."

"Mayhaps."

"All of the weeks it took to convince you, and you're content. You're having our child. If you were apprehensive, I'd be a little concerned." He tilts his head back, eyes glittering in the dimmed light of our room. "I am too glad you consented to grace me with your hand." His hands rest on my stomach. Voice softening, he says, "I cannot remember being so happy, Cala."

"Neither can I," I agree with a sigh. "My Thranduil."

We end falling asleep in the chair together, waking only when the fire dies down. We wake sore. My husband carries me to the bed, lowering me with a groan. When he crawls between the sheets to lie beside me, I'm pulled to his chest, where I curl in, nuzzling his sternum. We fade into sleep together again.

**-XXX-**

"I've always loved lilies," I murmur to the blossom. Beriana hands me another, and I bury my nose in the flower. I put it on my stomach, caressing the bump. In response, my baby kicks. I shift from where I sit to stand. My friend scrambles to help me.

"Do you need anything?" Beriana asks, concern. "Kal is just over there, he could get you water –"

"I'm fine," I assure her. "Just carrying a bit of extra person. But call Kal anyways, I'd like to see him."

The teenager comes quickly when called.

"Aunt Cala?" he asks nervously.

I simply pat his head. "Your mother is treating me like a piece of crystal. I thought it might put her at ease to have two people watching me."

With that, I set off, intent on wandering through the garden. Beriana hurries after me.

"Calahdriel Honeywell!" she scolds as she follows me, step for step. "You husband, the _king, _charged me to take care of you. The least you could do is not make it difficult. I swear, you're worse than Kalok when he was a baby!"

I smile, bending to sniff a rose. "I'll take that as a compliment. Kal was an adorable child." I straighten to pat the boy's cheek. "But that hasn't changed much."

His nose crinkles. "Aunt Cala, I'm eight hundred eighty-five."

"And still a boy," I reply. "My nephew. Ah, I can hardly believe, you're a young man."

He colors. "I'm hardly a boy."

"Don't argue with your queen," I say, grinning wickedly.

Beriana sighs. "Go get her some water, Kalok."

He slinks off. His mother turns to me, brows rising. "Teasing my boy?"

"Like any good auntie would." I wince suddenly. "Oh, that was a hard one, baby," I whisper to my womb. Another shift within me causes me to gasp, doubling slightly. Beriana catches my elbow and wrist.

"What is it?" Her green eyes are wide.

"Just feeling a little funny," I breathe. "I think –"

Suddenly, there is something wet in my underthings. Beriana leads me to the nearest bench, apparently not noticing the stain growing in the fabric of my dress. I lower myself to the seat, breathing deeply.

"The baby," I say frantically. "Beriana – I think my water broke."

Her mouth falls open. "KAL!"

**-XXX-**

Thranduil bursts into the infirmary, robes sweeping, eyes flashing. They settle on me, not fading into any state of calm, but their fire increasing. He's at my side automatically. Beriana, who was on the other side of the bed patting my forehead with a cool cloth, steps back. Arhiel, from where she sat holding my hand, follows suit. He grips my hand.

"Cala. How are you?" He's trying to remain calm, impassive, put-together. But something in his voice slips towards the end of the question.

"Fine," I assure him, bringing his hand up to my check. "As well as can be expected."

"Your highness." Fortesbrawn has returned from his office, holding a cup of tea. He hands it to me before turning to Thranduil.

"How is she?"

"Just as she said." The healer nods to me, hint of amusement in his gaze. I sip the tea, tasting mint and ginger. "Good. It should be an easy labor."

The words do not put the king anymore at ease. His hand tightens. I smile up at him, trying to be reassuring. Even when another contraction ripples through me, I'm attempting to put my husband at-ease. It doesn't work, unfortunately, when I release a small cry. Thranduil nervously watches, seemingly lost. _"What do you need?" _his eyes ask.

"How long?" he asks.

"Perhaps a few hours," Fortesbrawn answers. "The first one is rarely fast – perhaps your second child will come a bit faster."

I breathe a short laugh. "At this rate, I don't know if we'll be looking to have another."

Thranduil half-smiles. "We'll discuss it after you've held our baby. I think you may change your mind."

"Ah, mayhaps," I protest. "You try this and tell me you'll be quick to want another."

"I would if I could, my love," he assures me, stroking my brow.

**-XXX-**

The hours pass, painfully slow. We pass from afternoon into night. It's nearly ten when a few servants bring a tray for Thranduil. I can hardly look at food, let alone eat. He's so on-edge he can scarcely stomach anything, either.

The contractions grow closer and closer together. Around two in the morning, things really start. Fortesbrawn decides that I'm dilated enough to begin pushing.

"You can wait outside, my lord," I hear him offer Thranduil quietly as they walk to the supply closet for clean cloth.

Though his back is too me, I see the muscle tighten.

"No," he replies, equally quiet. "I'll stay. She needs me."

Something about his words warms me. When they return, I squeeze his hand, gasping as another ripple of pain tears through me. hranduil and Arhiel begin removing the pile of pillows behind me. Once their clear, the king climbs on – looking a little undignified, which I would normally relish enough to tease hm – to sit behind me, pulling me back to lay against him. It's not quite as comfortable, but I'm a little more at ease. We'd talk about him being there during the birth. I'd made the same offer as Fortesbrawn to get the same answer. Having him here would not make anything easier – but that's not quite the point. This is our…project. It's only right to see it through to the end.

The healer instructs me to open my legs, where he examines my progress. Frowning slightly, he peers closer.

"The baby is coming. You'll need to start pushing soon."

Thranduil's hand finds mine. We lace fingers. At Fortesbrawn's command, I begin pushing. The pain initially almost makes me want to black out, but I manage to stay away. With Beriana, Arhiel, and Thranduil's encouragement, I battle through the pain to push. Fifteen minutes pass excruciatingly slowly.

"You need to push, Cala," Fortesbrawn urges.

"I am," I wheeze.

"Harder!"

I close my eyes, and with all my might focus my energy. I feel a tearing pain, a release of pressure, then –

- an ear-spitting scream of life. I want to lean forward, to see my baby, but I don't have the strength, and sink against my husband. Beriana hurries to help Fortesbrawn go through his examination. Once they've finished, Beriana approaches with a squirming bundle, handing it off to me.

The wrinkled and red face is far from happy, making tiny snuffling noises as I pull the baby close.

"A boy," Arhiel tells us.

"A healthy boy," Fortesbrawn adds. "Congratulations, my lord and lady."

My eyes are flooded with tears. Looking up at Thranduil, I sigh. I lean up for a kiss and feel his arms tighten around me. Then, we go back to staring at our child.

"He's perfect," I whisper.

Thranduil cannot speak. He reaches out to stroke our baby's face. One tiny hand is out of the blanket, and together we marvel at the little fingers. Everything about him is so small and lovely.

"What shall we call him?"

The king rests his head against mine. "I've been thinking about it."

"Oh, have you?" I smile, kissing his forehead. "What are you thinking, my love?"

"Greenleaf," he says. "Legolas."

Surprised, I turn to stare at him. "That's Silvan."

He meets my gaze fully. "Like his mother," he says quietly. "And his grandfather. And the people he'll one day rule."

"Valar forbid," I murmur. "But…you want him to be Silvan? So clearly?"

Kissing my forehead, he nods. "What do you think?"

"Legolas." I try it out, pronouncing it slowly. "I like it." Looking down at the baby, I stroke the soft hairs lining his skull. The look like they might be blonde. At the touch of my fingertips, the babe opens his eyes, blinking blearily, tiny pink lips parting. His eyes are a startling blue – bright and deep. They're like mine more than Thranduil's.

"Oh," I whisper. "Look at that…hello, Legolas."

The fingers move, capturing his father's thumb and holding on.

"Hello, Legolas," Thranduil echoes.

There is something in his eyes like I've never seen before. A cross between deep joy and deep fear. It's an expression that does not fade, resurfacing each time he sees our son anew.

**-XXX-**

**Please review, it's been a rough few weeks. **


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